UBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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COPWIGHT DEPOSIT. 




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IN THE 

MARKET PLACE 



BY 


JANE VALENTINE 


AUTHOR OF “ BEVERLY OS?GOOD OR WHEN THE GREAT 
CITY IS AWAKE,” “JONAS BRAND,” ETC., ETC. 


The woman stood every night in the shadow of the 
great window, and peered into the face of every man 
who came and went in The Market Tlace. ? ’ ' > ' > 


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FIFTH AVENUE 

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THE L1BPA??Y OF 

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Copyright, 1902, 

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tJje IjonoraBle iWarp f, J^entier^fon, 

WHOSE HUSBAND WAS FORMERLY 
UNITED STATES SENATOR FROM MISSOURI, 

NOW OF WASHINGTON, D. C., 

ONE OF THE MOST EMINENT AND CULTURED 
AMERICAN WOMEN, 

YET WITHAL SO GRACIOUS AND KINDLY, 

A LOVER AND PATRON OF ART AND LITERATURE. 

THE AUTHOR 

HUMBLY DEDICATES THIS BOOK. 












TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


Chapter. 

Definitions I 

Principles op Pronunciation II 

Table op Elementary Sounds HI 

How TO Teach the Elementary Sounds IV 

Exercises in Enunciation V 

Exercises in Articulation VI 

Syllabication and Word Analysis VII 

Some Rules for Spelling and Some Spelling 

Tests VTII 

Some Rules for Pronunciation IX 

Review Questions X 

Pronunciation Tests XI 

List op 2000 Words Commonly Mispronounced.. XII 





CONTENTS. 


BOOK I. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Watching in the Market-Place 7 

II. All Her Past with its Loves and Hate, its Sins and 

Remorse 12 

HI. Tanglewood 23 

IV. Gartha Rowland 40 

V. The Van Courts 57 

VI. Laurance Carst 71 

VII. The Music of the Magic Flute 86 

VHI. Society at the Van Courts 104 

IX. Madame Bogardus Meditates 122 

X. Judge Van Court versus Nelson Lawrie 124 

XI. To Pen one Word that would Give thee Pain, 

Would be like Pricking thy Wounds afresh 134 

XII. A Glimpse into the Future 161 

XIII. The Insult to the Chef-’doeuvre 178 

XIV. In which Society Returns to the City 185 

XV. The Coming of Another Wedding 202 

BOOK II. 

I. What Does He Say? We do not Know what He 
Says 210 


TI, Her Wedding Day. 233 


6 


Contents, 


CHAPTER PAGE 

III. The Peace thatPasseth all Understanding 249 

IV. The Gathering of a Dark Cloud 262 

V. After the Governor’s Ball 279 

VI. Society in a Flutter 291 

VII. Sunrise 302 

VIII. Peace Makers, and Peace Breakers 321 

IX. Separated, But still Bound Together 833 

BOOK III. 

I. Potipher John Gilphin 343 

II. Snow-Ball Hill, in Elm Lane 351 

III. His Thoughts came Quick and Fast and Flew over 

the Years to the Great Tragedy of His Life 364 

IV. Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s Reception 383 

V. The 111 Winds that Blow Someone Good 403 

VI. The Old Black Woman pushed her Hood back off 

her Face, and Whispered “Massa” 435 

VII. She Rose up, her Cheeks Aflame, and a Light as 
Cold as the Gleam of her Diamonds, flashed from 

Her Eyes 448 

VIII. Such are My Brethren, My Sisters and My Mother 

(Luke viii) 465 

IX. This Was the Man she Had Prophesied of 479 

X. He Brushed Something Like a Tear from His Eyes. 490 

XI. She Knew the Dying Woman was the Wife of 

Potipher Gilphin’s Youth 505 

BOOK IV. 

I. And Spread her White Jeweled Fingers Apart 517 

II. He Said with a Voice Low with the Echoes of Pas- 
sionate Despair. ^ ^ < 524 


Contents. 


7 


CHAPTER PAGE 

III. This Costly White Raiment was Nothing now but 

Useless Rags 533 

IV. We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made of 545 

V. Oh, Fair Lady, I am But a Merchant Man 558 

VI. He Brushed his Hand Across his Brow to Shut out 

the Vision 569 

VII. The World of Fashion passes its Verdict on Happen- 

ings Past and Present 584 

VHI. This is the Love Thou Givest 591 

IX. Watching Again in the Market Place 603 

X. Where There is no Marriage, nor Giving in Mar- 
riage 607 


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IN THE MARKET PLACE 


CHAPTER I. 

WATCHING IN THl^ MARKE^T PTACE). 

The: long, balmy, May day, had faded into the 
mellow lingering twilight of the spring evening, and 
now hung its mantle of gossamer shadows about the 
brick and stone buildings that rose upon all sides of 
the old Market Place, softening their harsh outlines, 
their dingy, grimy facades, that the rain and snow, 
the soot and smoke, of many winters had deepened 
into a slate gray. The Market Place stood to the 
north, down in the business heart of the old City of 
St. L. It fronted on Fifth and Sixth Streets. Fifth 
St. now called Broadway, one of the most fashionable 
thoroughfares of St. L., where all the large wholesale 
and retail dry goods houses rear their stately heights 
up into the violet tinted, misty atmosphere. 

The shadows had crept and crept, until the electric 
lights flashed out over the streets, with their hustle 
and traffic. Over the heads of the people ; over men 
and women hurrying to and fro ; hither and thither, 
on their different ways. Over stalls filled with flowers 
sending out their perfume to greet the passers by, 

7 


8 


In the Market Place. 


Stalls loaded with all the rich, ripe fruits of spring and 
the early summer, that blended their varied colors, 
and took on all kinds of hues under the blue white 
flame of the lamps. There were young women with 
white aprons and saucy little white caps pinned on 
thick coils of brown hair, handing dishes of luscious 
strawberries to customers, their deep red mingling 
with the creamy ices. Also young men as picturesque 
as the girls, drawing cool foamy drinks from soda 
fountains. Booths where French Cafe au lait was 
served, and a lunch, of anything in the delicate 
line. Booths of fresh yellow butter, kept by two 
women, their faces grown saffron and wrinkled from 
long years standing in the Market Place, still had 
something of the Betty Higdon type, in a certain 
kindly expression blending with their hard shrewd- 
ness. There were large stalls of all kinds of fish, 
vegetables, meat and game. 

As the evening advanced the people became more 
numerous, men and women of all nations and climes, 
of every age, type, shade and condition in life, which 
go to make up the great masses. Young mechanics 
with their sweethearts out for a jaunt, to wind up with 
a lunch in some of the many booths. Also actors, 
actresses and singers in the Cafes and summer 
gardens pass and repass. Dancers, courtesans who 
pretend to be working girls, saloonkeepers, gam- 
blers, sporting men and women, thieves, pickpockets; 
all to be met within this motly throng, as they go and 
come on this lovely May evening. 

Put there was one who mixed not in the throng, 


9 


Watching in the Market Place. 

as one who is a looker on, can see and observe more 
in a crowd, than those who mingle with it. This 
person was a woman; she had stationed herself on 
Broadway, on the northwest corner of the Market 
Place, in the shadow of the large window of the big 
drygoods house, of F. N. & Co., where she could see 
distinctly the face of every man and woman, who 
passed by, and could not be observed by them. She 
was about thirty-four or five years of age, tall and 
slender, the willowy slender which seldom carries 
much flesh even in mature years. She wore a black 
silk dress, rich in material and make, although show- 
ing signs of wear. In the style of the bodice that 
fitted perfectly every curve of her slight, graceful 
figure, the elegant sleeve, and in the hang of the 
skirt, told that some artist hand must have fashioned 
it. About her shoulders, and gathered up around 
her slender throat, was a black thread lace scarf, and 
upon her head which was regal in its poise, she wore a 
piece of black lace twisted into the shape of a little 
bonnet. And over the bonnet was worn a long tissue 
veil, of some dark color. Her lustrous brown black 
hair, rippled on a low, wide forehead, and under the 
delicate brows, great violet eyes glowed like caverns, 
with fire flaming up from their depths. Her face was 
pale, and seamed by illness and suffering, yet it had 
lines of great beauty; and her whole bearing had 
a queenliness and an air of distinction, which marked 
her as high bred, and belonging to the upper class. 

Every now and then, she would draw the long tissue 
veil closer about her features, and fall back into the 


lO 


In the Market Place. 


shadow of the window, as some man drew near, whose 
face, she thought, bore a likeness to the one she was 
in search of. She had stood thus from the gathering 
of dusk, until after ten o'clock, when the crowd had 
thinned considerably and the keepers of the stands and 
stalls, had hung their shutters and put out their lights, 
and there was nothing open but a few booths, and 
the saloons, and restaurants, that clustered on the side 
streets of the Market Place. As she stepped a few 
paces out from the window, she heaved a deep sigh, 
and gazed about her hesitatingly. She had just made 
a turn to leave, when Cyrus Alvin on his way home 
from the Mission Hall on Ave. F. three or four blocks 
away, passed the window. As he did so the full glare 
of the electric light fell upon him. A hectic flush 
mounted to the woman's cheek, and she quickly 
stepped back in her hiding place, with the exclama- 
tion: ‘'Dear God! what a face! A face that does 
one good to look upon now and then." Out of all 
the faces that came and went, while she stood waiting 
and watching, faces lined and seamed with every 
passion that cramp and fetter men's souls; strife, 
greed, avarice, deceit, hate, sensuality, and the 
philosophy, “Let us eat, drink and be merry for to- 
morrow we die," this face out of them all, rose up in 
its beauty of intellect purity, tenderness, and love 
for one's own kind. 

On the evenings that Cyrus Alvin preached in the 
Mission he generally walked through the Market 
Place on his way home. He was one of the few men 
in the world, and every century is marked with but a 


II 


Watching in the Market Place. 

few, who spring up here and there out of the millions 
of men, who have at heart, love for the people, and 
sympathy for the masses ; who understand their weak- 
nesses, ignorance, failures and their toil and struggle 
for existence. Cyrus loved the Market Place, and his 
loving, Christian heart, went out to the crowds that 
came and went there daily and nightly. If he could 
but turn it into a Forum such as the Greeks had at 
Athens, he thought, one that would hold thousands 
of people. Why not a Christian Forum, where he 
could catch the ear of the motley crowds that 
thronged it from four in the morning, until the stroke 
of midnight, in search of the fleeting pleasures of the 
moment, and preach Christ’s beautiful and simple 
teachings, and turn the tide of their lives to better 
purposes. Cyrus Alvin passed on, the woman’s eyes 
followed him, as if she divined something soothing, 
something in him, that would act as a healing balm to 
still the tempest that tossed and raged in her bosom. 
She watched him until he turned the corner of the 
street and became lost to sight. The woman drew 
her veil more closely about her face, stepped out from 
her hiding place, and went her way. 


CHAPTER II. 


AI.I:. H]^R PAST WITH ITS TOVE^S AND HATE), ITS 
SINS AND remorse. 

She turned south on Broadway, and walked about 
a block, when she came to Ave F., where she turned 
up and walked until she reached Eighth St., then went 
south another block, which brought her to W. St., 
where she turned down and walked until she came to 
the middle of a long row of small, two story, old brick 
tenement houses, black with the soot and grime of 
years. In about the center of this row, she went into 
a narrow alley, which led to the rear ; here she began 
to ascend a stairway, old and rickety, that led up to 
a porch as old and rickety as the stair-way. It was 
almost totally dark here, but for the faint rays of a 
candle, which seemed to come from a window look- 
ing out on the porch above. As the woman climbed 
slowly up the steps, she was watched by an elderly 
negress who stood at the head of the stairs. When 
she nearly reached the top she held out her long, 
slender, white hand, to the black one, that was ex- 
tended to help her, and the colored woman exclaimed 
as she did so : ‘‘Oh, honey Mistiss, Pse jes’ a gwyan to 
go hunt fo’ ye.” The black woman led her mistress 
across the porch and into the door of the room, where 
the candle burned in the window. 

12 


Her Past With its Loves. 13 

‘‘I had no idea it was so late, Lou,’’ said the woman. 
Taking off her veil, she untied the strings of her little 
bonnet, wrapped the veil about it, and threw them 
on a cot that stood in one corner of the room and 
seated herself on the cot beside them with a sigh of 
exhaustion. 

''Da’s no use ye pestern yesef in dis way, my Miss 
Annette. Ye jes’ let tings go, honey, de Lod will 
fouch Massa Count in His own good time suah, 
honey. Is ye suah Mistiss dat he lef Pais an came 
back to his own Ian’.” 

"Oh, yes, Lou, he must have reached here in No- 
vember. You know his father died the July before, 
disinheriting him, and he came to this country to con- 
test the will, as he had spent the large sums of money 
his father gave him, on condition that he would live 
abroad. He is in hiding somewhere, Lou. He has 
no money only what he would make by cards, games 
of chance, and his wits. Yes, he is hiding from me, 
Lou, as he showed plainly by his actions for months, 
before he left Paris, he wanted to sever all ties with 
me. You remember I did not see him for six or seven 
weeks beforp he left, nor had he for several months 
before that contributed one sou, to keep up our ex- 
pensive mode of living.” She sighed and laid her 
head on the hard moss pillow of the cot, made by her 
old nurse Louise. 

The black woman lighted a small coal oil stove that 
stood on a sort of improvised table, made of two or 
three old rough boards, — and nailed to some split 
sticks of sawed cord-wood for legs. She then placed 


In the Market Place. 


over the stove a small, tin sauce-pan full of water to 
boil. In a corner near where the table stood, were a 
few shelves of the same rough boards, covered with 
clean newspapers, and arranged upon them were two, 
or three plates, two vegetable dishes, a white china 
cup and saucer, and a blue delf cup and saucer of 
larger dimensions. In the opposite corner from 
where Annette Lefarge reclined, was a similar cot, 
but made something like the table, of rough boards. 
It was covered with a patch-work quilt, old and worn 
but scrupulously clean, so was the calico case that 
covered the small pillow This was Louise's bed, 
made by her own hands, as was all the furniture in 
the room. The walls of the room were bare of 
paper, the plastering dingy and grimy, the floor was 
also bare, but clean, the boards scrubbed white. 

Louise had been Annette Lefarge's mother's slave, 
and Annette’s nurse from the moment her eyes first 
opened to the light of this mundane sphere. She 
was about fifty-five years of age, her skin was a dark 
copper color, her face intelligent and pleasing; the 
features were shapely and expressed much character. 
A red bandanna handkerchief turbaned her head, and 
her blue calico dress, and long gingham apron, looked 
as if they had just come from the iron, they were so 
spotlessly clean, and were without a wrinkle. And 
after years of wealth and luxury, which she shared 
with her Mistress, she was now her only support, and 
had been from the day they arrived in the City, where 
thirteen years before Annette had flown from home, 
husband and child. And now at the age of thirty- 


Her Past With its Loves. 15 

four, she was in the first stages of that dread disease 
consumption. 

Aunt Louise took from one of the shelves a small, 
tin tea-pot, poured in some boiling water, rinsed it 
out, took from a paper package a teaspoonfull and a 
half of tea, put it in her little pot, and poured over it 
enough boiling water to steep. She then spread a 
few clean newspapers over the rough boards of the 
table, placed upon it the white china cup and saucer, 
a plate, a small dish of strawberries, that the dear old 
soul, had bought at one of the fruit stands in the 
Market Place, on her way home from work, where she 
had washed all day for a family. This faithful creature 
was an exception to her race. Her hardest work in 
all her former life was to nurse her old Mistress’ 
children, and to attend to her dear Miss Annette. 
She took from its paper wrapping a patter of nice 
fresh butter, also some fresh rolls bought at the 
bakery. She then drew up the table to the side of 
the cot, where her mistress reclined, although it 
looked decidedly shaky, still it was strong, for her 
own hands had nailed the boards to the cord-wood 
legs. Then she poured the rest of the boiling water 
into the tea-pot. 

''Come, honey mistiss,” she said, as she poured out 
the tea, into the white china cup, "ye’s hadn’t fixed a 
ting to eat fo’ ye sef all de day. Can’t spec to las long 
dat way, an ye’s so poolly.” 

Annette Lefarge was a lover of a good cup of tea, 
and had taught her maid years before how to make 
it, as the blacks are not tea lovers, and seldom master 


i6 In the Market Place. 

the art of brewing the delicious beverage, their liking 
running to coffee. But Louise had not only attained 
perfection in tea making, but learned to love it as 
well as her mistress. When she had finished waiting 
on Annette, she took from the shelf her own blue delf 
cup and saucer, put in a little cream and sugar and 
poured the cup full of tea ; buttered a roll and seated 
herself on her cot. It was the first mouthful she had 
tasted since a light lunch at noon. 

‘‘Have you ever thought of going to the Institute, 
Louise, since our arrival here,’’ asked Annette, heav- 
ing a great sigh, and taking a sip or two of tea. 

“Mistiss honey, da is no use ye’s bovern about de 
chile now dea,” she replied in the softest tones, as 
she observed tears in her Mistress’ eyes. “What 
could ye do now, honey, fo de chile? Ye’d only fotch 
him to misery, an if anyting hoppens to ye, honey, he 
might fall into bad bans. Ise so ole now, dea, an we’s 
so poo-a, Ise couldn’t take da sponsibility ob rearin’ 
him, an’ he ought to be reared a geneman ; all his kin 
befo him hab been ladies an genemen. Ye’s all de 
chile Ise ken kyare fo now, an its moighty poo-a at 
dat. So, honey, dea, done trouble about de chile, 
tries to be jes as comfotable as ye ’s ken, an if de Lod 
is willin fo ye to seed him, ye’ll get stronger an seed 
de boy, dats de trufe, honey, suah. I knows, honey,” 
she continued, her cheek blanching gray, “dat Ise not 
widout blame mysef, but dea, ye’s would go, an no 
advisin’ .of mine could keep ye fom it. An so long 
as ye wus sot on gwyan an begged me so had to 
go wid ye, Ise couldn’t bear to seed ole Mistisses 


Her Past with its Loves. 


17 


daughter go to foeign pa-ts alone, wid a strange man, 
so Ise gib up my little home, Ise kept since ole Pete, 
my husban’, died, an’ went wid ye. But tell me, honey, 
wus da no divoce, dat what white folks git in de 
Couts, an a ceramony afta. Ise always thought da 
wus.” 

‘‘I led to you believe so at the time, but we had to 
keep our whereabouts a secret. The Count thought, 
and I thought, that my husband would follow us until 
he tired of the chase, then he would sue for a divorce, 
but he did not until we had been gone eight years. 
When I found I was going to become a mother, I 
urged the Count to pay a visit to this country; he 
had been talking of taking the journey for some time. 
He wanted to see his father about money matters ; 
when we arrived here he acknowledged to me that 
my husband had applied and gotten a divorce two 
years before. You know, Lou, I never wanted to 
part with my baby. I made a vow after vow to 
myself, before my baby boy came, that I would give 
up the old, gay, frivlous life, and devote myself to it 
the remainder of my days. You and you only know, 
Lou, how I pleaded with him, to let me keep it, I 
thought it would be a tie between us, something by 
which I could hold him. I had grown sick of his 
profligate way of living, not that I had much of the 
old ardent passion, I once felt for him left, it had 
mostly worn itself out, or rather had been crushed 
out, by him. 

“Time and again the thought came to me after we 
arrived in America, that he intended leaving me. I 
2 


‘i8 


In the Market Place, 


begged him while here in this country, before my baby 
was born, to let us be legally married. He made a 
great many excuses, but finally promised me if he 
could make some arrangement with his father, to 
provide him, with a settled yearly income, we would 
go back to Paris, and be married there, which would 
be the safest, as the French laws in regard to the 
legality of marriage are different from ours, and when 
we were settled in Paris, we would send you for the 
child. I never learned from him the result of his 
visit to his father, but I don’t think he succeeded in 
getting a settled income nor any money, but you know 
we left the baby here and returned to France. There 
he deserted me, I suppose he planned that after the 
little money he left us was gone and there was no 
more to keep up our handsome and expensive apart- 
ments, I would not sell my laces, furs and jewels, but 
find relief and comfort for my wounded feelings, for 
all the years of my youth that we spent together, 
under the protection of the Marquise de Noailles. He 
was very rich, and always had a strange infatuation 
for me. He was married, and you know, dear Louise, 
that the American woman can’t play the role of mis- 
tress to a married man, so well as her foreign sister, 
the French woman. We are bad enough, and I don’t 
know but worse. We get divorces, which relieves 
the husband of all further responsibility of the support 
and care of wife and children; if it is the wife, of 
course she will stick to her children. I had fallen 
low enough, I had sinned grievously, but I made up 
my mind that the woman who for nearly thirteen 


Her Past With its Loves. 


19 


years passed as the Count de Gascon’s wife, the 
Countess de Gascon, should never be another man’s 
mistress. 

''As you are aware I sold all my wardrobe, silks, 
satins, laces, furs and jewels. A good deal of the 
money went to keep up our house for the months we 
waited for the Count to return, and what brought us 
here to search for him. And I will find him, Lou, you 
will help to find him. We will search the whole City, 
we will hunt the whole earth over for him, and when 
found,” — she rose up from the cot, her lace scarf 
dropped from her shoulders, her tall attenuated figure 
had lost none of its sinuous grace, her head rose 
proudly up from the long slender throat, that looked 
like a piece of polished ivory against the black coils 
of her lustrous hair. All her past with its love and 
hate, its errors and sins, its remorse, and now its 
tragic ending, leaped up from her heart, and flashed 
out in white flame from the great, hollow eyes, which 
looked like deep, dark caverns. "Yes, and when 
found this hand,” she lifted it slowly up, "will kill him, 
will plunge this,” she held a long, silver mounted 
stilleto in it, "plunge this into his heart. Ah, my old 
name, my father’s name, what would he have thought 
of daughter who did as I did. Is it nothing for a 
woman, to throw away husband, home and child, 
good name, place, honor, and chastity, for a man? 
Yes Lou, this frail hand, that has never hurt a fly will 
drive the knife to the quick, and I will stand and see 
him fall dead at my feet. But — but — my baby boy. Oh, 
God be merciful to me.” She bent her head, and 


20 


In the Market Place. 


covered her face with her hands, and dropped on the 
cot. '‘Ah, yes, the God above, to whom I have never 
given one thought in all my careless, pleasure-loving, 
sinful life take pity, — pity on me, pity a wretched 
woman like me.’’ 

So here on this fair May evening, in this poor little 
room, in the poverty stricken tenement quarter of 
the City, with its bare floor, sits Annette Lefarge, a 
pale, worn woman, still young, still beautiful, but now 
fallen a victim to the dread disease, consumption. 
She who for thirteen years, was known in the prin- 
cipal cities of Europe, as the beautiful American, the 
Countess de Gascon. The woman whose beauty, wit 
and grace, attracted scores of what is called the best 
men, of the upper world. English Lords, Earls, 
Dukes, French Counts and Viscounts, Marquises, rich 
men, men of letters, artists, and journalists, all gath- 
ered about her. 

"Mon Dieu, the American is beyond compare,” said 
the Marquis de Noailles, one of the richest, hand- 
somest nobles of the French Capital, a savant, a mem- 
ber of the Academic, but whose weakness was beauti- 
ful women. It was at a Fete, given at a bijou house 
on the Champs Elysees, that the Count de Gascon 
had rented for a number of years. Annette known 
then as the Countess de Gascon, was standing in the 
middle of a long Salon, in the centre of a group of 
noted men and women, of the smart, fast set. Her 
pale Canary satin shimmering under Irish point lace, 
which looked as if the swallows had stolen the cloud 
fringes from the sky, and woven them into meshes 


Her Past With its Loves. 


21 


of intricate patterns, so rare and costly it was, so 
softly delicate. A scarf of the same lace, folded over 
her bare shoulders, and was caught across her bosom, 
by a broach of gleaming gems. A rope of the same 
pure stones, clasped her white throat ; and a dagger 
of brilliants bound the coils of her lustrous, black hair. 
A mass of pink roses, which sent out their sweet 
odours, nestled to one side of her corsage. A hectic 
flush crimsoned her pale, swarthy cheek, while her 
pouting, rosy lips, dropped '‘bonmots,’’ as bright and 
sparkling as the light which flashed in her great, violet 
eyes. 

''Ah, how spirituelle, a charm indescribable, she ize 
luvely,’' cried St. Edmunds, the young son of the 
journalist. Editor of Le Temps. 

"Those eyes, and the whole face, just what I have 
been looking for, I want the face for my Rachel,’’ said 
young, struggling Guidhartes,who afterwards became 
so famous for his paintings of beautiful women. 
'‘What a story there must be behind all her frivolity, 
to have given her face, such a mixture of gayety and 
suffering. There has been a great love there, but it 
has been starved, and the memory of something lost 
craved for.” 

So we find her, she who was the cynosure of all that 
brilliant throng, which gathered about her that night, 
in her luxurious home, where they drank, played 
and danced, until the day broke over the City, and 
the sun lighted the hills of Montmorency, and gilded 
the waters of the Seine. Had she been hard, cold 
and mercenary, had she set a price upon her charms. 


22 


In the Market Place. 


had she gone upon the principle of many of her sisters, 
and brothers too, that if I don’t eat I shall be eaten ? 
Had she been more covetous and avaricious, she 
would not now be dying in poverty. But she was like 
the butterfly, she loved to spread her gay wings to 
the sunshine, to glide from flower to flower, and sip 
the honey, as she went. She was thoughtless, gay, 
luxurious, indolent, trifling. But she had this one 
virtue, she was true to the man who led her to sin, 
and for whom she renounced so much. 

So we find her on this sweet. May evening. The 
only faithful creature out of all those gay flatterers, 
was her black maid, her old nurse, who now sat at her 
side, with her turbaned head bent in her black 
wrinkled hands, glancing now and then through her 
tear dimmed eyes, at the pale, worn face of her 
mistress, her dear Miss Annette, whom she held in her 
arms, when she was but a few minutes old. Her long, 
slender, white fingers twined together tightly, know- 
ing well that it will be but a few months or a year 
at the most, ere they will be parted forever. Alas, 
yes, what a price the woman pays for passion, the 
thing the world gives the misnomer of love. 


CHAPTER III. 


TANGlvEWOOD. 

Prom the heart of the old City, in which the great 
Market Place stood, there led a street, that ran its 
narrow length in a circuitous way, until it reached 
the northern suburbs, where it widened into a road- 
way, that was at one time considered the most beauti- 
ful carriage drive in the state of Missouri. Along 
this drive were cottages, old mansions, with spacious 
grounds, the remains, of what several years before 
had been large farms, but were now laid out in City 
lots, of from one to two and three acres, and sold 
whenever the demand came for ground to build a 
suburban residence. To the east of the road, lay the 
bottom lands, stretching off to the river, and upon the 
west side rose the uplands. To the southwest, the 
fields and meadows swept away to the hills, that at 
sunset wrapped about them a mantle of mist, glinted 
with all the hues of earth and sky. 

A short distance from the terminus of the road, and 
on one of the highest sites, which was generally called 
the hill, stood a picturesque brown wooden cottage, 
old fashioned and quaint in its structure, with all 
sorts of angles jutting out here and there. There 
were porches where the rose and cypress vines twined 

23 


24 


In the Market Place. 


their tendrills over the railings and up and about 
the posts. But the prettiest place in all the porches, 
to the daughter of the house, was the kitchen porch 
when the morning glories bloomed in all their varied 
colors. 

On the south side of the cottage was a wing used 
as a sitting-room. What would I give for one more 
glimpse of that lovely old room as I last saw it years 
ago flooded with sunshine; its large bay window 
facing the east and filled with flowering plants, that 
were the care and pride of the mistress of this un- 
pretentious home. Its grand piano, its blue tinted 
walls covered with pictures, the faded carpet, and old 
fashioned horse-hair furniture, all rise before me as 
I write these lines. On the north side across the wide 
hall and leading off from the parlor, was a broad 
square room, that had been used as a spare bed- 
chamber, until about three years before our story 
begins, when it had been changed to an artist’s studio, 
by adding a sky-light, staining the floor and wains- 
coating an oak and walnut, and tinting the wills a 
warm brownish gray. 

The house stood back from the road facing the 
east, and had a frontage of about an acre and a half. 
It stood in the midst of grand old oaks, forest trees, 
pines and cedars. And from the road gate led a wide 
carriage drive up to its front porch. 

This was the home of Peter Lawrie and wife. 
They had two children a daughter, Mary, and one 
son. Nelson Lawrie, a young artist. Peter Lawrie 
was tall and gaunt, and as straight as an Indian, 


Tanglewood. 25 

although not long before he had stepped over the 
threshold of sixty years. His hair was snow white, 
and his face pale, notwithstanding he worked much 
out doors in the sun. His light blue eyes a little dim 
now, had something of the soft sleepy expression of 
his daughter, Mary. He was known in the neighbor- 
hood of his home as a most honorable man, intelligent, 
well posted on all the happenings and affairs of the 
day ; but considered exceedingly eccentric. One of his 
eccentricities, at least to his neighbors, (and our neigh- 
bors are quite observing of our peccadilloes), was his 
persistence in wearing an old, high, beaver hat, and 
when a man once gets wedded to a hat he sticks to it 
closer than a brother, and longer than he does his 
wife. Peter's hat, was supposed to have been black 
and shiney at one period of its existence, but was now 
as gray as a rat, and bent out of all manner of shape. 
But Peter clung to his old hat, as he did to his life, 
and was as tenacious of holding to it as he was to 
his old habits and notion of things. No matter how 
hot the sun poured down in summer, while working 
in his garden, or how much his wife importuned him, 
to change it for a cooler one, or a warmer one in 
winter, it was of no use. No matter how much his 
children ridiculed it, for it was often the butt of 
Nelson's good natured sarcasms, and his daughter's 
wit, as Mary in her gentle way, had much sly humor ; 
it was all to no purpose. Peter Lawrie could not be 
induced to part with his old hat, it was part and 
parcel of him. And Peter Lawrie, without his old, 
bent hat, his habits and old-fashioned notions of 


26 


tn the Market Place. 


living, which he clung to as he did to his hat, 
would not have been Peter Lawrie. His clothes 
hung very loosely on his long limbs, but Peter’s 
garden shoes were in every sense equal to his 
hat, if not far ahead, in the way of not being like any 
shoes extant. His feet were naturally immense, but 
his garden shoes, were two sizes too large for him, 
and often Mary, when she came upon him accidently 
in some part of the garden or orchard, would burst 
out in a merry laugh, and exclaim : ‘'Oh, you dear 

old father, you are splendid if you are the most 
obstinate of men.” 

Peter was not what the world terms a success, he 
had been a stumbling block all his life. He stumbled 
into things, and stumbled out of them with scarcely 
courage enough left to rise, but he would rise, only to 
trip up and over again. He managed by his wife’s 
thrift and small income to live comfortably and edu- 
cate his children, for Peter did love books and 
“larnen,” as he himself, pronounced it in his yankee 
twang. And when his eldest son, now deceased, 
bought the cottage with its five acres of ground, he 
told his father, who had a real liking for gardening, 
and ‘pawtering’ about a place, that he could find 
plenty to do if he cared to cultivate small fruits and 
flowers, and have a kitchen garden beside. Fruit 
and flowers were things he knew his father and 
mother were very fond of. And Peter did make a 
success of his fruit, as the neighbors came from far 
and near to buy it. 

Mrs. Fawrie was still handsome, her ample propor- 


Tanglewood. 27 

tions became well her age ; and her brown eyes had a 
way of gazing over her spectacles, with a gentle in- 
quiry when addressed. She had a strong face, a large 
mouth, where soft curves played hide and seek, when 
in conversation. Her complexion in youth, was of a 
rich olive, and she still at fifty-five years retained 
much of its freshness. Her iron gray hair was worn 
in plain bands back of the ear, which added to a brow 
of much serenity. This serenity had helped to carry 
her through all her troubled years; I say ‘troubled' 
for how could she have lived so long without trials 
and heart breaks ? And when her four children grown 
to manhood and womanhood died, one after the 
other, she almost sank under her sorrow. And when 
her oldest son, the one who bought Tanglewood, 
thinking what a home it would be for father and 
mother, and hoping to live long himself to enjoy it, 
lay in that sleep, not that knoweth no awakening, 
but that throweth off the old covering for the new; 
did not her heart strings almost snap apart and the 
terrible blow all but kill her? But she never com- 
plained, never murmured, there was no strong arm 
on which she could lean, nothing to sustain her, but 
her great faith in Him who doeth all things well. 
Oh, faith, beautiful faith, guiding us on with thy shin- 
ing hand, we follow thy light, over roads that are 
hard and stony, their sharp edges cutting deep and 
piercing the weary feet, leaving them sore and blood 
stained, but well knowing at the terminus there is 
peace, rest and joy. 

She had Peter, her husband, of course, but Peter's, 


28 


In the Market Place. 


ways, were not her ways. He was very much in love 
with his wife, when he married her ; as most men are 
supposed to be, and every one in her own New Eng- 
land village wondered at the handsome Susan Sim- 
mons marrying the tall gaunt Peter Lawrie, as it 
Vv^as well-known she could have made the best and 
richest match in the town. But Susan's large heart 
took pity on him, took him in and cared for him, as 
many a woman has done for a man before. Mrs. 
Lawrie felt many a time, that the expenses of Nelson's 
art, and Mary's musical education, had been too much 
of a strain on her slender purse. She often had to 
practice small economies and now that Mary was 
delicate, she was obliged to keep a servant. But did 
any girl, ever play Handel and Hayden, and the rest 
of the great composers like her? And what a con- 
solation it was to her, and it paid her for all her self 
sacrifice, when she went on quiet Sabbath mornings 
to the Episcopal Chapel on the hill, to hear the large 
organ played by Mary, its sweet low notes rising in 
the hymn, higher and higher, then swelling out in 
strains, grander and grander, then slowly, softly, back 
to the low notes again, and die away on the ear. Then 
the young voice of Carrie Van Court, with the melody 
of the brown thrush, would burst forth with ‘T know 
that my Redeemer liveth," and every head in the 
church would turn to get a glimpse of its owner. 

Mary Lawrie, the daughter of the house, was about 
twenty-three years of age. She was of medium 
height, but very thin, her head was shapely, her hair 
that sort of brown which is neither dark nor light. 


Tanglewood. 29 

that undecided shade that we see now and then in 
undecided characters. She wore it combed back 
from a broad and sensitive brow. The mouth indi- 
cated gentleness and sweetness, and the large, light 
blue eyes, with their heavy drooping lids, which 
gave them an habitual expression of, dreaminess 
seemed to become more limpid behind a pair of 
glasses that rested on a somewhat prominent nose. 
Her hands were remarkable for their whiteness, and 
their long tapering fingers, were the index of the 
musician. She was of a decidedly nervous tempera- 
ment, and as full of moods as an April day. One time 
all tears, another all sunshine, but she was the very 
soul of music. Sometimes she played so exquisitely 
sweet, that it seemed as if the angels were whispering 
heavenly strains in her ear. Strains that carried her 
up, up, to the land where the saints dwell, where 
in dreams the soul catches a glimpse of the spirits that 
dwell therein. 

In an alcove of her brother’s studio, stood an easy 
reclining lounge, and generally thrown carelessly over 
it was a silk crazy quilt made of bright colors. Here 
Mary came afternoons with book in hand when the 
day’s work was done, wrapped herself in the silk quilt 
to read and to rest until time for tea. She called the 
studio ‘'The Haven of Rest,” it was so cool, so quiet, 
so suggestive of thought. Away from the sitting- 
room, with its grand piano, its large bay window, 
where the morning sunshine poured in over the plants 
in winter, over the faded carpet, the black hair-cloth 
furniture, and threw golden beams on the gray-blue 




In the Market Place. 


tinted walls, covered with pictures. This room was 
the delight of her pupils who came and went and 
were never tired of singing its praise. But when 
noon came and the practicing of scales, the duetts, 
sonatas and the last piece of new music, had been 
played, Mary was tired, and when dinner was through 
she would as I have said, take a book, and go to the 
studio, wrap herself up in the crazy quilt, and read 
and rest until tea. 

Nelson Lawrie, her brother, said one morning to 
Carrie Van Court, as she bounded into his studio 
giving two or three thrills of that lovely voice of 
hers ; then after standing a few moments in silence 
before a sketch he was working on, exclaiming: 
'"Where did you make that, it’s a dream of beauty.” 

'"It’s all well enough to dream,” he replied, taking 
a blink with one eye at the sketch, ""but one must 
work hard and long hours, if one expects to accomp- 
lish much in this life.” 

Nelson Lawrie, as he stood that fair morning before 
his easle, with palette and mahlstick in hand, his navy 
blue round coat hanging in careless grace from his 
fine shoulders, a black velvet cap tipped on one side of 
his handsome head, did not look like one of the hard- 
knocked kind. Perhaps if he had not his mother’s 
comfortable home, made so by her thrift in managing 
the small income she possessed, which gave him an 
advantage over many of his young brother artists, in 
not having to work for his daily bread ; and which left 
him free to devote his time to painting, and out-door 


Tanglewood. 31 

sketching, he might have found the knocks so hard 
that they would have felled him at every blow. 

He was about twenty-six years of age, above 
medium height, with a slender but strongly knit 
frame, a high broad brow, and eyes a dreamy, gray- 
blue, whose glance seemed to look down into one^s 
soul. They were eyes that brightened with warmth 
at every innocent pleasure, and flashed out with indig- 
nation at an untruth, or an injustice done to others. 
The nose was straight until it came to the nostril 
which had a slight upward turn, a marked inclination 
to satire. A heavy brown, curling mustache gave 
but a glimpse of a mouth large, but well shaped and 
pleasing. Yet the lips which curved over the white 
regular teeth, when speaking gave one the same im- 
pression as the nose, the tendency to sharpen the 
edges of his sentences. But his strongest feature 
was the broad square chin, that told the observer the 
earnestness with which he pursued his profession. 

Nelson’s surroundings, that is, his studio, were 
clothed something like himself, in warm tints. The 
walls were covered with canvasses that were sketches 
of grand old trees, catching the light from soft skies, 
clear running brooks, ranges of hills asleep in purple 
mist. Scrapings of the palette-knife made for color 
effect, as he said. Also studies of children, and 
young mothers, a young girl painted in every 
attitude, as ''Morning,” "Spring,” a "Wood Nymph,” 
yvith large, soft dark eyes, following one where ever 
one turned. Bright rugs made by his mother’s and 


32 


In the Market Place. 


sister’s hands, laid here and there on the polished 
floor. 

'Tm not rich enough to have Persian and Turkish 
rugs,” he would say, to his young artist friends, when 
they would speak in praise of their artistic beauty, 
''yes, they are as pretty as can be, without being 
expensive, besides I am always reminded of the dear 
hands that made them.” 

It was to this studio, that Peter also came after 
dinner, to read the morning paper, and the great 
political weekly, while Nelson took his half hour 
siesta on the old hair-cloth sofa, in the sitting-room 
with his hat tipped over his eyes. The sitting-room 
was a charming place to Nelson, it was so bright and 
sunny, full of the rich notes and bird-like trills of a 
voice he loved, his first love. Ah, talk as we may, 
the memory of that first, sweet dream, will last until 
the kind earth takes the remnant she has given us 
for a covering to the soul. Nelson had worked all 
the long morning, and the dawn comes early in May. 
He had risen at half past four, and had gone down to 
the river bank, where he could get a view of the bluffs 
and where the grand old sycamores bent over the 
water on the opposite shore rising up in the soft opal 
mist, with the sunbeams breaking through, and which 
he was becoming famous for painting. He laid down 
his palette and brushes, and took out his watch, the 
hands wanted but a few minutes to one, the dinner 
hour at Tanglewood, and as he turned to leave the 
studio, he heard the tinkling of the bell, which was as 
music to his ear, for Nelson was young, hearty and 


Tanglewoodo 33 

strong. But Nelson, while he enjoyed his three good 
meals a day, did not live to eat, but ate to live. He 
went to the dining-room, and stood in the door that 
led into the kitchen. 

^Well, father, how are the strawberries flourish- 
ing?’’ he said, addressing his father, who had just 
stepped on the porch. 

''Wal we’ll have the purtiest strawberries in a few 
days, that is to be found in this part ot the country,” 
said Peter, ‘^and this is the purtiest day we’ve had for 
a long time. If this weather keeps on we’ll have 
plenty of ripe berries by the twenty-second of May, 
an’ asparagus, an’ beets, and the peas are coming on 
finely.” 

''Father, you should know by this time. Nelson’s 
and Gartha’s weakness for strawberries. Between 
them and mother, they will disappear so fast, that 
you won’t know they are here until they are gone,” 
said Mary, coming to her father’s rescue, as they all 
seated themselves around the table. 

"Mary, if your mother wan’t such an etarnal fruit 
consumer, I might make a little money out of the 
strawberries, but she’d eat, presarve and can more 
fruit than any presarving an’ fruit canning company 
in the whole United States, then I’m blamed if she’d 
have enough,” returned Peter, who found in his 
daughter’s kindly glances encouragement to ventilate 
a little on his favorite hobby. 

"I don’t see, father, but what you can eat your 
share as well as the rest of us, and I’m sure we don’t 
have any too much for ourselves, by the time you 
? 


34 


In the Market Place. 


supply your regular customers. And by the time 
winter is over, we have to be pretty sparing until 
the fresh fruit comes in again,’’ remarked Mrs. 
Lawrie, who dreaded to have her husband sell all 
his garden produce, knowing his propensity to get 
rid of money. 

‘‘If your mother had more confidence in me I’d 
have been better off to-day,” returned Peter, taking 
a large mouthful of mashed potato and looking at 
Mary, but not exactly addressing his remarks to her, 
as they were meant for Nelson as well. “Yes, I’d 
have been a richer man, but she never did have any 
confidence in my undertakings.” 

Peter, like most men, of his kind, never gave his 
wife credit for her encouragement and setting him on 
his feet, after the many failures of his undertakings. 

“What is more cooling and healthy than nice ripe 
fruit in summer, and it is so delicious in winter, 
besides what a blessing to have all one wants for one’s 
own family use, without having to buy ; 1 never could 
endure to eat canned stuff,” said Mrs. Lawrie, gazing 
calmly over her spectacles at Nelson, but not without 
a merry twinkle in the soft brown eyes, which Nelson 
and Mary understood so well. “And it is so nice,” 
she said, “to have a fresh dish of berries, when they 
are in season, or other fresh fruit, for Gartha, when 
she comes home tired, for since her mother’s death 
she feels she must not stay home, sit down and fold 
her hands.” 

“Thar it is agin, thar it is agin, no confidence, no 
confidence, jist $o, mother, go in an presarve, an can 


Tanglewood. 35 

until you fill the attic an celler, an every cubboard in 
the house. Go in, mother.’^ 

^‘The fruit shan’t be wasted, I assure you father, 
our appetites are too good for that,” said Nelson 
laughing, and glancing from under the corner of his 
eye, at Peter, who was a great eater, and could 
stow away more food, than any two ordinary healthy 
men. But when one came to consider the tall, bony 
body, and large frame, the big muscles, one did not 
wonder at the demand for the supply of wasted tissue. 

And dear reader, would you like to follow me to 
the dining-room door, and take a peep at this quaint 
family, seated around the table? Perhaps you may 
think that having but one servant, they are not overly 
particular, but you will find it a mistake. Mrs. 
Lawrie was one of those fine old New England 
women whose race is nearly run, as the home life 
which produced her, is fast disappearing in our 
crowded cities. They were women who brought in- 
telligence and executive ability into all their house- 
hold arrangements and she was too well in years 
when she left her New England home, and came to 
the southwest, to feel any desire to give up the work 
that had become sacred to her, into the hands of in- 
competent servants, untik forced to do so by Mary’s 
delicate health. 

The table was laid with a snowy white cloth, and 
blue china, not the blue china of the day, that can be 
bought in any of the china stores; but the old, old, 
style that had been laid away on the top pantry 
for ye^fSt It had belonged tq Mf§, 


36 


In the Market Place, 


mother, and had been taken down and put in use 
because Nelson desired it. And if you could scent 
the odor of the well cooked and delicately seasoned 
food, you would not have blamed Peter for having 
such a prodigious appetite; nor did Peter, in all the 
days of his married life, ever sit down to a badly 
prepared meal. 

‘'Mary, what kind of dessert have you asked her 
father, pushing his plate to one side. 

“Pie, of course, mother might as well hide her 
head, if she didn’t have pie,” answered Mary, ringing 
for Arminta. 

“Wal, let that thar curiosity of a gal, you’ve got out 
thar fetch it on.” 

And in a few seconds Arminta appeared, carrying 
two flaky apple pies smelling of cinamon and nutmeg, 
and laid them on the table, beside Mrs. Lawrie. 
Peter’s title for Arminta was no misnomer, for indeed 
she was a curiosity, in every respect, so much so that 
she almost amounted to a monstrosity. She was very 
tall, and exceedingly thin, her arms and hands were 
remarkably long, their size and length being out of 
all proportion to the rest of her body. Her head 
was very small, resembling a good sized apple with a 
face on it, and balanced on a crane-like neck. She 
had coarse jet black hair, worn knotted in a wad 
at the back, the wad having a propensity to never stay 
in place, as one short end was sure to be straying 
down about the collar of her dress. Her eyes were 
like two peas, with inflamed lids, and in her motions 
she was more like a bundle oi well oiled springs, than 


Tanglewood. 37 

a thing of flesh, bone and muscle ; she was so agile and 
quick, and she had a way of noiselessly flying in and 
out through the doors and rooms. Mrs. Lawrie found 
her an excellent servant, clean, handy and quick 
about her work, and she seemed to take an interest in 
everything and everybody about the house; and es- 
pecially Mary. She appeared to be quite solicitous 
about her health, often when Mary would be alone in 
the sitting-room, lying on the sofa with her eyes 
closed, her thoughts wandering away into dreamland, 
and when her eyes would open suddenly she would 
find Arminta standing over her, gazing down upon 
her, with her long bare arms folded, and her little 
pea-like eyes resting on her face, with such a strange 
expression, an expression which often puzzled the 
gentle Mary, and made her wonder what kind of a 
person she was. Then Arminta would ask in a blank 
way : ^'Can I do anything for you now. Miss 

Mary would answer : ''Nothing at present, Armin* 
ta.’’ Then Arminta would disappear as silently as 
she came in. 

A quiet smile rested on Mary’s mouth, and dimpled 
the corners of Mrs. Lawrie’s, Nelson winked at his 
sister, as Peter took the palm of his long bony hand 
and rubbed it over his mouth, Arminta flew out the 
door, then Peter fell to eating his pie. Peter loved 
■pie and wanted it every day for dinner, and breakfast 
too if his wife would give it to him. For that matter 
the whole Lawrie family were fond of pie. How 
could one blame them, if one could but smell or taste 
Mrs, Lawrie’s delicious apple pies and custard, and 


38 


In the Market Place. 


above all her pumpkin and mince. I tell you, dear 
reader, and I, the scribe of this history, know from 
personal knowledge, there were never pies like unto 
hers, made in the whole United States. And you 
would not think it strange of Nelson Lawrie, when he 
was awfully pie hungry and his mother had helped 
him twice, (of course the second piece would not be 
quite so large as the first), he would offer his sister 
twenty-five cents for her piece, which she would 
gladly accept, and when she had the money shut up 
in her palm, she would say, with a laugh and a gleam 
of triumph under the drooping lids that she had the 
best of him, that while he had the momentary delight 
of satisfying his appetite, she had the more lasting 
one, the quarter would add a few more sheets to her 
collection of music. But it was just like men, they 
did so love their stomachs. 

"'Men are horrid animals,’’ would be Nelson’s 
reply. 

Peter pushed back his chair, stretched out his long, 
lanky limbs, then rose from the table, and went into 
the sitting-room, where the family generally retired to 
after dinner and took from the piano the great politi- 
cal weekly, that had been his companion for over 
twenty years, and carried it to the studio, "the haven 
of rest,” where Peter after his long morning’s work 
dozed, read and rested, for an hour or two. Mrs. 
Lawrie seated herself in her own easy chair, where 
she was in the habit of indulging in daily afternoon 
naps. Nelson threw himself on the old hair-cloth 
sofa, ^nd tipped his cap over his eyes, while Mary 


Tanglewood. 39 

before taking her departure to the lounge in the 
alcove of the studio, played his favorite airs the 
‘'Silvery Thistle,’’ “The Melody of the Birds,” with 
touches as soft and sweet, as the faint soughing of the 
pines made by the gentle south winds, on a summer 
even-tide. We will leave him dreaming his dreams 
of riches, love and fame, so that he may lay them 
as an offering at the feet of one whose destiny lies 
linked with his. 


CHAPTER IV. 


GARTHA ROWI.AND. 

About half a mile from Tanglewood, nestling 
among slender maples and tall cotton woods, was a 
pretty, white, six room cottage, with gabled roofs, 
bow windows, green shutters and wide porches, where 
the pale purple hyacinth vine, trailed over the rail- 
ings, and up and about their posts in the soft summer 
time. This was the former home of Gartha Rowland, 
our heroine, and her widowed mother. The cottage 
with its grove of trees in front, its flower garden and 
kitchen garden at the back, and seven acres of ground 
lying to the northwest side of it, was purchased some 
twelve years before by Mrs. Rowland. Here she re- 
tired after her husband’s death, with a small income, 
what was left of his estate, after the business had 
been settled, which was found to be very much in 
debt. And to use this income to the best advantage 
in furthering her daughter’s education, and future 
welfare, was at that time her whole aim and thought 
in life. 

When her part was accomplished, she said to her- 
self, Gartha’s 'intellect, grace and wonderful beauty, 
would do the rest. Yet there were things about the 
child, which troubled her mother. While she was 
40 


Gartha Rowland. 


41 


studious and intelligent far beyond her years, and all 
her expectations, still she could not understand the 
thoughtful bent of the girl's mind, the indifference to 
all worldly honors, and the utter unconsciousness of 
her great personal charms, which her mother set so 
much value on, and which she hoped would lead her 
to the goal of her ambition; that was to see her 
daughter well settled in a home of her own ; married 
to some rich and distinguished man, before she was 
laid away to rest, beside the husband she had never 
ceased to mourn. 

Gartha was in her eighteenth year, and had just 
graduated from the State Normal school, when her 
mother sickened and died. This sunk the girl for 
months in the deepest grief, for her love and her life 
were bound up in her mother. She would have given 
up her most cherished schemes of doing good, of 
being helpful to eradicate the evils that press so 
heavily on mankind, and married to please her, even 
though her mother's choice of a husband, was 
commonplace. 

Mrs. Rowland and Mrs. Lawrie had been friends 
since the widow came to reside at the Maples. 
Mary and Gartha, who had been schoolmates and 
companions, strengthened the ties of this friendship 
by theirs, which took on a more poetical form, on ac- 
count of their youth. After Mrs. Rowland's death, 
Mrs. Lawrie who would have liked to mother every 
boy and girl, who was motherless, insisted upon 
Gartha's coming to live at Tanglewood. All that 
fell to Gartha at her mother's death, was the cottage 


42 


In the Market Place. 


and the seven acres of ground that was now laid out 
in town lots, and the four hundred dollars yearly in- 
come, and now the rent of the cottage, which brought 
her about five hundred more. After things were 
settled she took up her home at Tanglewood. Now 
she was free to make a path for herself, to follow her 
dreams and aspirations, the dreams she had dreamed 
when she sat beside her mother in the long winter 
evenings, conning her Latin and French, every once 
and a while taking her eyes off her book, to become 
lost in thought. Her mother often chafed under her 
silence, her seemingly indifference to all the things 
that most interested her, things which were trivial, 
and of little importance to Gartha, but made up the 
sum and substance of her mother’s life. • 

Gartha was one of those priceless gems of woman- 
hood, that to meet for a moment, is like inhaling the 
sweet scent of some rare flower, the fragrance of 
which lingers long afterwards in the memory. At 
eighteen years, she reminded one of a half-blown 
blush rose, waiting for the sun and dew of time, to 
develop its delicate beauty into the splendor of the 
full blown flower. To tell an untruth was to her 
thinking the most deplorable and pitiable act that one 
could be guilty of. ''What use is it to tell a false- 
hood?” she would often ask herself, unless to gain 
something at another’s expense ; to gratify a vanity, 
or to find vent in some malicious feeling harbored 
towards another. Do those who tell a falsehood, to 
hurt another’s character, think it falls unheeded ? Oh, 
ino, there is the stain which never can be erased, the 


Gartha Rowland. 


43 


pain in the heart, when the lie so wantonly told, comes 
back as if upon the winds, and is whispered in the ear 
of its object/’ 

When she heard her own sex speaking slightingly of 
one another she would say to herself : ''How can those 
who hold so much power for good or evil, yes, even 
the destiny of nations, for are not women the mothers 
of little children, the future generations of men, and 
women ? How can they abuse their power, by gossip 
and bickerings, listening to envious tittle tattle, when 
their -tongues should rather sing the praise of as 
simple and common, but beauteous a thing, as the 
green grass at their feet. We turn away from de- 
formity of the body, but is not deformity of the mind 
worse ? Every light word spoken, every thoughtless 
deed, is made harm of, every good impulse and gener- 
ous act, is turned to selfish motives, when looked 
upon with eyes of envy. Everything beautiful is 
made to appear ugly; this dries up the healthy life 
blood, shrivels and shrinks the soul, which is the 
greatest of the Creator’s creations, and should be 
the receptacle of all that is pure and holy.” 

These things would sadden and depress her sensi- 
tive nature, for a while, but it would rebound, and 
she knew all people were not alike and the world 
was still fair and joyous, a fit place for gods to 
inhabit. She would often in her long talks with 
Mary, express herself, in a way that was new and 
strange to the gentle Mary. 

"I would so wish to see all men God-like, at least 
they should live such pure and noble lives, that it 


44 


In the Market Place. 


would entitle them to be counted as the sons of God. 
I should like to have some such men as friends. 
Why shouldn’t friendship exist between men and 
women, of the same tastes and pursuits? Women 
would gain by listening to their more bold and vigor- 
ous speech, while on the other side, men would gain 
in refinement, character, broadness and purity.” 

‘'My dear Gartha,” Mary would answer, “there 
may be a few men and women such as you speak of, 
scattered over our great land, but it would be im- 
possible to bring them together, and as things exist, 
the first man you would have a friendship for, the 
world would have him your lover.” 

“I have no doubt, but what you are right, dear 
girl,” would be her reply, accompanied by one of her 
low musical laughs, whenever Mary’s more practical 
view of things, checked her in her visions of the 
ideal life she would make for herself. 

This was Gartha Rowland, at the age of two and 
twenty years. What she will ripen into later, time 
and this history must reveal. I am afraid my pen 
can do but little justice to a beauty like Gartha’s a 
beauty which Nelson Lawrie had many times tried to 
put on canvas but with all his genius had failed. 

“Don Caesar!” was often his exclamation, that 
burst from his lips, while trying to paint her por- 
trait ; “I can’t catch the expression, and without the 
expression her face loses half its charm.” 

She was tall and straight as a poplar tree, but with 
the slender, willowy grace, which men so much admire 
in women; but to the writer, she was more like the 


Gartha Rowland. 


45 


elm, she had all its grace, its beauty of line, and 
strength. The whiteness of her forehead was en- 
hanced by ripples of brown hair, that rare brown 
which modestly hides its hues, until some stray beam 
of light changes it to tarnished gold. Her eyes were 
large, of a dark gray tinged with blue, and when the 
face was in repose, were moist with a tender dreami- 
ness. The nose was straight, the mouth with its lips 
arched like a bow, showed exquisite refinement, but 
if we will take a nearer glance, we will find strength 
and decision in their soft, upturning curves ; and that 
the delicately pointed chin denoted purpose. 

Tanglewood was to Gartha an ideal home; it 
seemed to her she had always lived there, that she 
was one of its productions, that all her past life, with 
her mother had been but a dream. Here she was 
surrounded by books, pictures and music ; things her 
mother’s home was scantily furnished with ; but they 
were treasures she hoped might be hers in the future. 
And now she was dwelling under the same roof with 
an artist, had been for nearly four years. She could, 
any hour of the day, go into his studio and feast her 
eyes upon sketches and paintings that were ever a de- 
light to a mind which drank deeply of all the beauties 
and sweet things of nature. There had grown up be- 
tween this young, handsome, gifted artist, and herself 
an ideal friendship, that she felt would last until the 
end of her days. Their admiration for each other had 
been from the first mutual, he was one of the men, 
she would like to have peopled the earth with, one of 
the sons of God. Why this ideal friendship did not 


46 


In the Market Place, 


ripen into something between two who were by 
nature suited to each other in all respects, is one of 
the unaccountable things of life. Perhaps if Carrie 
Van Court his sister’s pupil, with her wondrous voice, 
and dark, piquant beauty, had not first arrested his 
eye and his heart, fate might have been kinder to 
both Gartha and him. 

But at this time she was free and happy as all young 
girls are, and thought that Tanglewood, with Mrs. 
Lawrie and Peter, Nelson and Mary, and Carl Goetze 
and his flute, her girl dreams came true, and could 
there be any one more picturesque than Carl, any- 
thing sweeter or more tender, than the love he gave 
to Mary. And her deep but more passive love for 
him. Yes, Gartha in this home of the Lawries, was 
a new beauty, added to that which is already beauti- 
ful. To every one in the house, she gave something 
better and finer, clothed them in some new and shin- 
ing garment, woven from her fancy. What respect 
and love, she gave to the kind and calm Mrs. Lawrie, 
and with what delicacy she won Peter’s affection and 
admiration. One day while sitting alone in the studio 
with his daughter, he remarked to her : ‘ Wal, 

Gartha’s quite an addition to the family, it was never 
famous for beauty, Mary, excepting the little your 
mother an’ Nelson lays claim to. Yes, exactly jist so.” 

Carrie Van Court had met Gartha but seldom 
before she came to reside at Tanglewood. At first 
Carrie was inclined to resent her appearance there, 
to look upon her as an intruder. But as the weeks 
passed, Gartha became to the ardent, impulsive girl. 


Gartha Rowland. 


47 


a new interest, a fresh study, and as Mary once said, 
about her, a new light had come into their lives. 
There was scarcely a day, when they grew better 
acquainted, that Carrie didn't take a run over to 
Tangiewood. Often Carl Goetze would be there 
before her, and they would go into the sitting-room, 
where Mary would take her seat at the piano, and with 
Carrie's singing, and Carl's flute accompaniment and 
the birds outside, there was to Gartha's thinking 
never anything like it in the way of music. Then 
when Carrie would go back to her own home which 
would be a little while before her father’s return to 
dinner, she would go into the library, throw herself 
into one of the easy chairs, and exclaim : ‘Tt’s true, 
I am not of them, as mamma says, I could not be of 
them, no matter how hard I should try. Mamma is 
right, they don't belong to our set. I wonder what 
set I do belong to ! I don't belong to mamma's and 
I'm sure I shall not join Mrs. Topping’s. I shall have 
to create a set of my own, have a salon, where I can 
gather about me the people of my own choosing." 
She would then bound up from her seat, give trill after 
trill, leave the library and run upstairs to her mother's 
room. 

One hot, sultry day, Carrie had been confined to 
her mother's room, all the morning, until she paid 
her usual afternoon visit to the Lawrie Cottage. She 
made straight for Mary's room, expecting to find her 
there; but instead Gartha lay on the bed. She had 
donned a long, loose, white wrapper that revealed the 
willow grace of her slender figure, the light from a 


48 


In the Market Place. 


window, on the opposite side of bed fell upon her 
coils of hair, which had strayed from their comb, 
tinging it to rippling masses of russet gold. She 
laid down the book she was reading, as Carrie with 
flushed cheeks threw herself into a chair, and her 
hat on the floor beside her. 

have just stolen away from mamma, she has been 
in the sky-sckews since breakfast, Charlotte and 
myself succeeded a little while ago in getting her 
to sleep, and I like a bad girl took advantage of the 
sleep, by slipping out as quietly as a mouse, leaving 
Charlotte in my place. And now my Gartha, Pm 
going to take a little quiet snooze myself.’’ 

Half an hour later she lay sound asleep on the 
floor. She had slipped on a white dressing gown of 
Mary’s and spread under her, a bright, crimsoned 
flowered comfortable. There she lay, her small bare 
feet, with their pink toes sticking out from under her 
gown, one bare rounded arm thrown over her head, 
her black coils of hair lying in a heap on the pallet, 
looking like glossy, satin ropes, and making a strik- 
ing contrast to the comfort’s rich color. 

Gartha had taken up her book again and had 
become so absorbed in its contents, that she neither 
saw nor heard Mary, until she stood over her looking 
down upon her. 

''What a spirit you are, to come so silently and un- 
perceived into the room, but not unfelt,” said Gartha, 
gazing up into Mary’s face, with a smile that told her 
there was no measuring the esteem and affection in 
which she held her. 


Gartha Rowland. 


49 


^^You should say rather, what an exceedingly in- 
teresting book, my stamping upstairs, was equal to 
father in his garden shoes,’’ replied Mary, showing a 
small, slender foot in a neat tie. 

^‘Neveretheless, you are quite spiritual,” returned 
Gartha. 

‘‘Yes, I am somewhat ethereal, so far as being 
minus of flesh, but aside from that I cannot lay claim 
to anything spiritual,” said Mary, drawing up a low 
willow rocking-chair beside the bed, and seating her- 
self. “Do you believe in spirits ?” she asked with eye- 
lids half closed and leaning her head against the back 
of the chair. 

“I cannot say just what my belief is in that respect,” 
replied Gartha, with her eyes raised to the ceiling, “I 
have never given the subject thought enough to form 
any belief in the communication with departed spirits, 
if that is what you mean. Still I have certain feel- 
ings in regard to the unseen. I think that spirits are 
everywhere about us, that they are now in this room, 
that they watch over us, guide and influence our 
lives. The better, the purer, our lives are, the higher 
and purer the spirits we attract. All life is spirit, 
matter is but a dead thing unless pervaded by spirit. 
Scientists have talked and written so much of matter 
and of life originating in matter; but take away life 
and see how quick matter decays. We are composed 
of soul and body. The Saviour said : “It is the 
spirit that quickeneth, the flesh profiteth nothing.” 
I suppose He meant another kind of spirit, the spirit 
of eternal life; the gift of the Holy Ghost. For the 
4 


In the Market Place. 


S<^ 

soul can be dead if the Holy spirit does not dwell in 
it/’ She picked up the book, she had been reading. 

'‘Here is Carlyle’s French Revolution,” she con- 
tinued, "I can hardly find words to express my 
thoughts of it. To me it is a great tragic 
poem, both sublime and terrible ; it depicts one of the 
saddest and most fearful conditions of a nation. It 
shows what the human race may become, and how 
low it may fall when our watchword is rationalism, 
and our religion materialism, sensualism. It shows 
the love of power in man, and the pitiful thing he 
would make of his fellow man. This revolution was 
the result of generations and generations of ignor- 
ance, human wrongs, tyranny and hard, sterile 
poverty, that strips life of every vestige of beauty. 
The rich and high born, became from so much ma- 
terial power, steeped in immorality, licentiousness, 
debauchery and every conceivable crime. And in the 
neglect of their fellow beings, the great masses, which 
they were born with the right to govern, they ruled 
with the iron hand of despotism, until human beings 
grew into twisted, crooked and ugly things, and rose 
up in all their hideousness of revenge and hate, and 
struck their deadly blows on the heads, which should 
have cared for them and seen to it, as children of 
the state and the nation, that they were properly 
taught all that is best and good. But when they 
rose they trampled under their feet, all that was 
sacred and holy, love, marriage, home, wives and 
children. 'Away with them!’ they cried, 'give us 
desecration, carnage !’ ” she paused a moment, her 


Gartha Rowlando 


51 


cheeks were flushed, her delicate nostril dilated 
and quivered, as she cried : ‘‘Oh, how good it 

is to be free, to have some of the quickening spirit, 
that Christ speaks of ; to have youth, health, strength, 
and apply them in being useful to others/’ She 
raised her hand, and pushed back the rings of gold 
brown hair, from her white brow. 

“Who is it that says, ‘To sit at thy feet. Oh, Soc- 
rates, is learning enough for me,’ to sit at thy feet. 
Oh, Carlyle, and learn of thee,” said Mary. 

“I should prefer rolling round here in cool Oriental 
fashion,” said Carrie, turning over on her side. She 
had awakened when Mary first came into the room, 
and lay with her back to the girls, listening to Gar- 
tha’s eloquent outburst, “to sit at Carlyle’s feet we 
would have to be dressed for the occasion, and it’s 
so jolly on a hot day like this to have a whole floor 
for one’s bed, and to do just as one pleases.” And 
Carrie laughed, her young body and limbs taking all 
sorts of aerial poses. 

Gartha instantly came down from her heights, and 
gave a soft low gurgle, as she looked at Mary, whose 
smile passed to her eyes and rested there. Then 
Gartha rose from her couch and seated herself in a 
chair near the window. 

“I have heard that Carlyle was a dumpy, grumpy, 
old man, but even if he were as Topping would say, 
‘The most dear, delightful old man in the world,’ I 
can’t read him. I have tried, but he is too heavy for 
me,” and Carrie rolled over on her back, swaying her 
large palm leaf fan, with an energy which caused 


52 In the Market Place. 

rather than mitigated the exclamation, ''Dear, isn’t 
it hot?” 

"Nevertheless,” rejoined Mary, "I should like to 
have met the Author of 'Hero Worship,’ and to have 
had the pleasure of listening to his talk, how delight- 
ful the recollection would be in after years.” 

"Froude says, his voice was like the roll of a great 
cathedral organ, and Emerson likens it to a trip 
hammer, with an Eolian harp at the end,” returned 
Gartha, the light from the window showing her face 
all aglow with inspiration. "When I read him, he 
carries me along with him to heights where I grow 
weak and faint. His intellect is so strong and 
rugged, so far reaching. But afterwards come the 
delicate touches, and like a lion with his great paw, 
he lifts me tenderly down and softly soothes me back 
to strength. Then again his words convey the idea 
of ocean waves, gradually gathering force, until they 
come like huge billows, roaring, surging and moan- 
ing, as they come dashing against the rocky shore. 
Yet who does not love the music of the sea, who 
would not love the music of his voice !” 

"I have no doubt of it, my dear Gartha,” said Car- 
rie, with a rippling laugh, so brimming over was she 
with mischief, and determined to see only the ludi- 
crous side of the subject. "If I saw three beautiful 
young women sitting at the feet of my husband, if I 
had one I should be awfully jealous, besides it would 
strike me as being so funny I think I should have a 
fit.” She gave another ringing laugh, rolled over 
and over on the floor like a kitten playing with a ball. 


Gartha Rowland. 


53 


''Oh, you naughty girl, you deserve a good shak- 
ing,'’ cried Gartha, rising and leaving her place by 
the window. Running across to where Carrie lay, 
she drew herself down beside her, and folded Carrie 
in her arms and shook her until they both lay over 
on the floor, exhausted from laughing. Mary sat 
quietly by, but one could see by the twinkle in the 
half veiled eyes, that she was enjoying the sport. 

"If duty did not call me home," said Carrie, sitting 
up and shaking out her curls, after her tumble with 
Gartha, "I should like to sit at the feet of my lover, 
all the rest of the evening." 

"Can you not give him an hour of your society 
after tea, he would paint with more inspiration on the 
morrow," said Gartha. 

"Do you think so, my lily queen? Love is sweet, 
my dear, but it is also bitter, every sweet has its bit- 
ter, I believe that is the proverb," returned Carrie, 
all her brightness, her fun-loving spirit gone, as she 
drew on her long, pink, silk hose over the dimpled 
toes. 

"Still, life is not worth living without love," an- 
swered Gartha, who was standing by the bureau- 
glass combing out her radiant hair, "love is often an 
incentive to high aims, and noble deeds. Friendship 
comes next, but love is the culmination. To love 
comes to us all sooner or later, in some form." 

"How wise you talk, my Gartha, but you are as 
free as the winds, you do not have to ask any one's 
leave to spend an hour or two in the society of the 
^adored one. You are your own mistress, you can do 


54 


In the Market Place. 


as you like. You see, my Gartha, I am hampered on 
all sides, I have those who are always demanding 
obedience, always placing restriction upon me. If I 
were as free as you, I would roam over the whole 
earth, singing like a thrush/' 

‘‘My dear, I am no more free than yourself. I have 
' my duties also ; I have self-imposed tasks. I toil all 
day like the bees, and there is my conscience and my 
reason, ever setting my will aside, and proclaiming 
to me that there is happiness only in being useful, 
and in self-sacrifice/' 

“When you begin to talk of reason and conscience, 
you get beyond me, my Gartha. By-by, Maim," she 
cried, she had finished dressing and stood with her 
hand on the door knob. “By-by," she trilled, throw- 
ing a kiss to each of the girls, then she bounded out 
of the room, and down the stairs. When she reached 
the lower hall, she stole on tiptoe into the studio. 
Nelson stood by a large cabinet of drawers and 
shelves, where he kept his small sketches and all his 
painting material. He had just finished his work for 
the day, and was scraping the paint from his palette, 
and putting the little dabs into a shallow white dish 
of water. He did not see her until she stood beside 
him with a pout on her lips, and raised her large lus- 
trous eyes, black as night, and beaming with love to 
his. He looked down into her face, then with a quick 
motion threw his palette on the table of the cabinet, 
and began to pace up and down the floor. 

“What, angry with me !" she cried, as he was going 
to pass her, but he stopped and impulsively caught 


Gartha Rowland. 


55 


her in his arms, and kissed her on the cheek. She 
tore herself from his embrace, rushed into the hall, 
out the front door ; down the path to the road, walked 
until she came to the end of Tanglewood park, where 
she turned up and crossed the common a short cut to 
her father’s house. 

When she reached her home, she ran up stairs to 
her room, locked the door, threw her hat on the floor, 
and flung herself into a chair and burst into pas- 
sionate tears. After she had cried her fill she rose 
up from her seat, wiped her eyes, and went and stood 
by the window. ‘'I know my marriage with Lawrence 
Carst will be wicked and base ; I shall never, never be 
his wife,” she exclaimed. ‘‘Yet I know my father will 
never listen to a marriage with Nelson Lawrie. He 
would disown me if I thwarted his will, and banish me 
forever from his presence, and never speak to me 
while I lived.” 

She left the window, crossed the floor and seated 
herself again. 

“No,” she murmured to herself, after a pause of 
some moments. “I am not of them ; I could not be of 
them ; my path in life leads far, far away from them. 
Oh, Gartha,” she cried, the tears streaming afresh 
down her cheeks, “I can never forget your eloquence 
this afternoon, the beauty of your face, the sweetness’ 
of your voice, as you spoke, and the heavenly expres- 
sion in your eyes. Oh, my Gartha, if I did not know 
you to be true and noble, I fear I should be very much 
inclined to be jealous of you. We are but human, and 
who can live near you without loving you ?” 


56 


In the Market Place. 


She was roused from her soliloquy by hearing the 
sound of voices in the lower hall ; she jumped up from 
her chair, brushed the tears from her eyes, and stood 
a moment listening. Yes, it was her father and Law- 
rence Carst. She went to the mirror and stood be- 
fore it. The hot tears had dried her eyes showed 
none of the effects of weeping, but were bright and 
hard, and all the color had left her face, and with it, 
all Mary’s and Gartha’s better and purer teaching and 
influence. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE VAN COURTS. 

Judge Van Court's spacious mansion stood in the 
midst of large grounds, some two or three blocks to 
the left of Tanglewood. For many years the house 
had been considered a country residence, but the city 
had gradually crept up and extended its limits, until it 
was now within a square of its gate. The house was a 
fine old-fashioned, solidly built structure of red brick, 
with green blinds, and high white stone steps leading 
up to a broad piazza, which reached across its front ; 
its square sides being broken by small porches and 
balconies in the second story. It stood in the midst 
of tall, grand old forest trees, and the place was 
known as Forest Grove. The house had undergone 
no change since it had been built by the Judge's 
father, many years before, for a country residence, 
with the exception of the yearly cleaning, papering 
and painting. The large drawing-room which ran the 
whole length of its west side had none of the existing 
exuberant display of meaningless bric-a-brac that we 
see in these days, even in the homes of the moderately 
well-to-do. But the dark polished walnut woodwork, 
the deep pile of rich velvet carpet, the old-fashioned 
rosewood furniture, upholstered in pale sea-green 

57 


58 


in the Market Place. 


satin damask, with trailing vines and soft pink roses ; 
the same damask with point lace curtains draping the 
windows. A few fine bronzes stood on the white 
marble mantlepieces, that were richly carved. A few 
copies of the old Masters in oil hung on the violet, 
and gold tinted walls, such as the Madonna of the 
Lilly, the Madonna of the Chair, by Raphael, and oth- 
ers ; and mixed with these were some rare old engrav- 
ings. Across the wide hall, wide as the drawing- 
room, and as long, with a spacious winding stairway, 
that was a delight to eye and heart, was the library 
and dining-room, furnished in furniture adapted to 
their use of the old massive zort. And built out from 
the library, was a large conservatory. The sleeping 
rooms and sitting-room were on the second floor, 
they were large and airy, and full of soft sunshine, 
and from the west windows could be seen at evening 
many delightful sunset effects. 

Judge Van Court was a Southern gentleman of the 
old school, believed in the ancient regime, the days 
of chivalry, when manners were manners, and gentle- 
men were gentlemen. Judge Van Court was a reflex 
of his house, as his house was of him. He had not 
exactly grown musty or rusty, his mind as well as his 
wardrobe and house had its yearly cleaning and reno- 
vating; and some of the badly worn things were re- 
placed with new. Yet when speaking of the present 
he was often heard to express his dislike of the times, 
and that he hated the hurrying, hurrying, elbowing 
mob of the day» 


The Van Courts. 


59 


^^Yes, sir/’ he would add with long strides up and 
down the floor of the library, ''sociability, manners, 
courtliness, and the art of conversation have all gone 
out with the vulgar mob that have come in.” 

Judge Van Court was rich, his father had been rich 
before him, and he himself had made quite a fortune 
at the bar. An eminent lawyer, thoroughly versed in 
law, brilliant, persuasive, with a deep, mellow voice, 
full of rich tones, a voice he had handed down to his 
daughter, and which generally won the jury in a case 
to his side. But the Judge was in many things nar- 
row. A man can be very clever and brilliant, and at 
the same time narrow. He never indulged in light 
reading, although some of our most gifted scientists 
are great fiction readers ; but the Judge believed that 
the books of this and the past century were all trash. 
He read law, the daily papers, and Milton and Shake- 
speare, were his favorites; they were great poets. 
Then, according to his thinking, the world stopped 
writing, (and perhaps it might have been better off 
if it had, but it didn’t, for there are voices and numer- 
ous voices, and only the few have the true ring.) He 
cared little for science, and less for art ; he was some- 
what acquainted with the old Masters, and the great 
Greek sculptors, which he had seen when a young 
man, when, after leaving college, he made a tour of 
Europe. But like his favorite poets, after them art 
degenerated. He might have had a faint idea of the 
modern American artist, as some poor devil who was 
always up in the clouds, and if practical at all, a kind 


6o 


In the Market Place. 


of impecunious dexterous mechanic. Oh, America, 
with all your boast of millions and millions of dollars, 
you have a starved art and literature, for no matter 
what the genius of a man or woman may be, if he or 
she has to toil for bread and wait long years for re- 
cognition, until the heart dies in them, and the hand 
that could have wrought so much cunning, lies still 
and cold. The glowing colors of the tragedy on can- 
vas are faded, and the story but half told. The poems 
of the nation unsung, and the great book, unwritten. 
While you to your shame roll in millions of dollars. 
Is this American patriotism ; is your only love for the 
flag, which you prate so much about, to use to put 
dollars and cents in your pockets? Trade, trade and 
the flag, we hear it dinged in our ears, from the rising 
of the sun until the going down thereof. Well, if so, 
I will take it upon myself to say, it is a mean patriot- 
ism. It is not true patriotism. 

Mrs. Van Court was a small, dark woman, with 
soft, dark, doe-like eyes. She had been an invalid for 
years, with no purpose of ever getting out of her in- 
validism. Mrs. Van Court never had a purpose or a 
desire to accomplish anything, or rise out of her help- 
less condition. Her husband petted and humored her 
in all her whims, and provided her with every luxury ; 
then he left the burden of caring for her and enter- 
taining her to Charlotte, her .colored maid, and her 
daughter Carrie, who loved her mother, but loved 
her father more, and she in return }vas the apple of 
his eye 


The Van Courts. 


6i 


''Mamma, mamma,’’ cried Carrie, bounding into 
her mother’s room, her tangled curly hair falling 
about her face, her cheeks flushed and her eyes beam- 
ing with happiness and delight. 

"My child, my daughter, where have you been all 
this time? I’m sure you have not been since half 
after eight, and it’s now nearly noon, taking your 
music lesson. I’m afraid, my child, you spend too 
many of your mornings with those very strange 
people, the Lawrics ; you know, my child, they are so 
very odd,” said Mrs. Van Court, with a mixture of 
reproof and fretfulness in her tone. She was lying 
back in her chair, clad in a white morning robe, and 
wrapped in shawls, and the day outside like summer. 

"Dear mamma, I think the Lawries are very nice 
people, such an interesting family,” replied Carrie, a 
little of the bright color leaving her cheek. 

"My daughter,” said her mother, picking up her 
crochet work from her lap and letting it drop again 
in a nervous way, "if your father knew you spent so 
much of your time with the Lawries, I’m afraid he 
would be greatly displeased. It is well enough for 
you to go there and take your music lesson, but aside 
from that it is not best to have much to do with those 
very peculiar people.” 

"But mamma, dear, you have never met any of the 
Lawries ; you have seen old Mr. Lawrie ; he is quite 
eccentric, but so intelligent, mamma. Still you know 
nothing of their home life, it is really beautiful, 
mamma, so different from ours. I’m aware they are 


62 


In the Market Place. 


not so rich in worldly goods as we are, but their home 
is lovely ; and as for cooking, why, mamma, we have 
nothing to compare with Mrs. Lawrie’s cooking.’' 

Mrs. Van Court’s crochet work had dropped in her 
lap, and her almost transparent hands lay listless on 
the arms of her chair. 

“Carrie, Carrie,” she exclaimed, “how came you so 
intimate with those people? And if you persist in 
keeping it up I shall have to inform your father. It 
is out of place in one of your position to be on such 
terms of intimacy with those very strange people. 
Mrs. Lawrie may be a very good woman in her way, 
but the old man is so decidedly queer, so extremely 
odd,” and Mrs. Van Court lifted her thin, white hands 
and rubbed them together in an agitated way, drew 
a long breath, closed her eyes and lay back in her 
chair. 

“Oh, mamma, dear, I never knew what life really 
meant, or how beautiful it was until I met the Law- 
ries. Mary Lawrie teaches me many things besides 
music, and I could not be in a better place, or better 
society, for a few hours every day, than with her and 
her mother. And there is Gartha; oh, if you could 
but just see Gartha, you would wonder at her loveli- 
ness, or how any girl ever came to be like her. And 
I’m sure you would admire Nelson Lawrie; he is so 
handsome and noble, besides being so gifted; I am 
certain he will some day win fame and fortune by his 
genius.” She said all this feeling that her own 
stronger nature could overcome her mother’s weaker 
one, and any aversion she might have towards those 


The Van Courts. 


63 


whom she considered plebeian, and far beneath her 
daughter in every worldly sense. But her father’s will 
she knew was law. He would treat Nelson with con- 
sideration and courtesy, but from his aristocratic 
standpoint of life, for Nelson Lawrie, a poor artist, 
to dare to make love to his. Judge Van Court’s, only 
daughter and heiress, would be a different thing. 

‘‘My child, you alarm me,” exclaimed Mrs. Van 
Court with nervous twitching of the eye-lids, “what 
has your father and myself been thinking about not 
to have kept a closer watch on your going and com- 
ing. Carrie, I should think that hat old Lawrie wears 
would terrify you and frighten you so you would 
never want to go there.” 

Here Carrie burst out laughing, as the tall, gaunt 
form of Peter Lawrie, in his garden hat, rose up be- 
fore her, and laughed until the tears rolled down her 
cheeks. 

“Oh, my dear child; oh, my dear daughter, those 
strange people have bewitched you, and your expec- 
tations so brilliant.” 

“There now, dear mamma, I shall be good,” said 
Carrie, wiping the tears from her eyes, and taking 
both her mother’s hands in hers, and kissing her on 
eyes and cheek. “Come, dear mamma, be calm, and 
I will open the windows and let in the fresh air, it 
will revive and strengthen you ; and just listen to the 
birds singing; did you ever hear anything so sweet 
and delicious? And Carrie dropped her mother’s 
hands and lifted the sash of the window, before her 
mother had time to compose herself. 


64 


In the Market Place. 


child, you are so impulsive, I shall catch my 
death in this draught/' Mrs. Van Court had been 
catching her death for the last ten years ; she had 
housed and pampered herself until she shrank and 
wilted like a hot-house plant, if the least breath of 
fresh air happened to blow upon her. 

‘Xet me order the carriage for you, mamma; a 
ride this lovely morning in the fresh air will do you 
good, put some of the color in your cheeks that papa 
tells about when you were a girl my age, when he 
paid court to you. What was it like? The tinge of 
the blush rose, oh, I know you must have been very 
beautiful.'' And Carrie kissed her mother again on 
cheek and eye-lids. 

A tap at the door, and Frank, the black butler, an- 
nounced Mrs. Topping. ‘'Good gracious me! there 
is that horrid woman," exclaimed Carrie, jumping up 
from her seat beside her mother, and taking refuge 
in a corner behind the great massive mahogany bed- 
stead, where she thought she would be out of sight of 
the intruder. Mrs. Topping was the dear friend of 
Mrs. Van Court, as such dear friends go in the Top- 
pings' and Van Courts' world. The acquaintance of 
many years had done away with all formality between 
the two families, and Mrs. Topping was what might be 
called a privileged character in the Van Court house- 
hold, so she was asked up to Mrs. Van Court's room 
where Frank with all the politeness of the old-time 
negro servant ushered her in. 

"My dear Clara, how are you feeling this morn- 
ing?" said little Mrs. Topping as she entered. "I 


The Van Courts. 65 

have just returned from a drive ; you have no idea 
how inspiring the air is, to be sure/' 

And little Topping drew up a chair beside her 
friend, and laid her small, black-gloved hand caress- 
ingly on Mrs. Van Court's arm. '‘My dear Clara, I 
think of you so much this lovely weather, I think of 
you at eve, Clara, at night, and when I awake in the 
morning, I think of your patience and your sweet 
resignation to your fate. But, Clara," she went on, 
pushing her chair a little distance back from her 
friend, "you have Carrie, and your husband, the 
Judge," here she gave a sigh, "you can lean on him, 
there is nothing like a husband's love, and you know 
Clara, while Felix lived I never knew what care or 
responsibility meant. We lived together over twenty 
years and his harshest word ever spoken to me in all 
that time was, 'my dear, precious Jane.' It was these 
words, morning, noon and night. But I'm not lonely, 
oh, no, I feel that he is ever with me. Who is it, 
Andrew Jackson Davis, or John Freeman Clark, who 
says, 'The spirits of the dear, beloved, departed dead 
are ever with us, ever hovering about their loved 
ones.' If it weren't for my children I should be very 
lonely; still, if I hadn’t children I would give myself 
up to the cultivation of the beautiful, ah, how inspir- 
ing it is to be sure. My dear Clara, it lifts one's mind 
up from the trivial things of this life." 

Carrie pretended to be reading a book, but at this 
the small foot came down with a stamp on the floor. 

"Now, my dear," continued little Topping, not ob- 
serving Carrie, she was so fond of the sound of her 
5 


66 


In the Market Place. 


own voice, ^^iJon’t you think a trip abroad would do 
you good ? When I was abroad the last time, I pur- 
chased so many beautiful, artistic things, things that 
are not to be found in this country, at least not so 
artistic, you know, as they are to be found abroad, on 
the other side of the water. Now, you know, dear 
Clara, we have nothing in this country to compare 
with the Christmas and Easter things they have in 
London and Paris, and, oh, the loveliest Japanese 
ware, such as fans, banners and all such things. And 
the last six months I spent in Paris, I bought quite a 
supply of clothing, enough to last me for two or three 
years. Oh, I shall never again have a dress made in 
this country. When I need another supply, another 
replenishing of my wardrobe, I shall go abroad. Pm 
sure a trip abroad would do you good, Clara, it would 
indeed, oh, how inspiring it would be, to be sure ; it 
would lift you right up out of this, indeed it would, 
Clara.’’ 

''I think, myself, a trip to the old countries would 
benefit my health,” answered Mrs. Van Court, with 
a faint flush of the cheek, and a momentary bright- 
ness in her eyes, ‘Ve spent two years abroad, the 
Judge and myself, after we were married, and the old 
world had a great charm for me thm.” 

Carrie was making a desperate effort to keep back 
a sneeze, and in so doing rose and tumbled over her 
chair. She picked it up and sat down on it again. 

''Why, Carrie, I was not aware you were in the 
room,” said Topping, with a snap of her small, bfown 
eyes. hear you are making great strides in yonv 


The Van Courts. 


67 

imusic. Oh, how I envy you the pleasure of coming 
in daily contact with those dear, delightful, quaint, 
artistic people. Think of a home where music and 
art reign supreme. Ah, if I had but your advantages 
when I was your age, but they were not to be had 
then , they were not so common, how much more cul- 
tivated, elevated and soaring my mind would have 
been. Well, Clara, I must go now, if you will only 
pick yourself up and go out to ride, it would do you 
good. I shall soon come again,’’ and adjusting her 
black shawl, she took leave of her friend. 

‘The old dame,” said Carrie, coming out of her 
corner, when she heard the hall door close on Top- 
ping, “advising you to go to ride when she has kept 
you in all the morning. Nelson Lawrie says she is 
nothing but a bundle of pretenses.” 

“Carrie, Carrie, my child, what has come over 
you?” 

“Mamma, she reminds me of a coon,” said Carrie. 
Rising and going over to where her mother was 
seated, she threw her arms around her neck, and car- 
rolled at the top of her voice, until the echoes rever- 
berated all through the house, out of the doors and 
windows, and died away in the rustle of the forest 
trees. 

Little Mrs. Topping was a widow, of forty years 
and over, with reddish hair, that she wore rolled up 
from a very narrow forehead. She had small, snap- 
ping, reddish brown eyes, a sallow complexion and 
false teeth, which helped along whatever else there 
was false about her. A thoroughly modern woman, 


68 


In the Market Place. 


was Mrs. Topping, with all the modern taste for new 
things, which are made to appear old. Her husband 
died shortly after he built the fine, gray-stone front 
mansion, a block or two from the Van Courts^ in 
which he tried to outdo all his neighbors’ houses. Of 
course, Mrs. Topping’s house, like herself, was also 
modern, the floors and woodwork upon the second 
floor were stained in imitation of real wood, and in 
the sleeping rooms costly rugs lay here and there, 
on the polished floors. But Mrs. Topping’s boudoir, 
ah, how artistic, the latest thing in curtains draped 
the windows, willow chairs, painted white and gold, 
a toilet table dressed up in tucks and ruffles like an 
infant’s robe, and when not in the wash, like the cur- 
tains, the smoke and dust of the old sooty city played 
havoc with their color. The same with her brass 
mounted iron bedstead, which was very much ruffled 
and laced, and as for bric-a-brac, how any one of Top- 
ping’s taste could do without bric-a-brac, but as it is 
too numerous to mention here, we will not afflict the 
reader with a description of it. 

The parlors and library had inlaid floors of oak and 
maple, and had rugs of Turkish and Persian manu- 
facture, and genuine at that. Low divans, luxurious 
upholstered easy chairs, and Chinese and Japanese 
fans and banners hung in every conceivable spot 
about the rooms, and on the walls the eye searched 
in vain for a resting place, until it found the few 
painings in oil, which were interspersed here and 
there. Still Mrs. Topping must be artistic in the way 
of mantlepieces in her drawing-room and library; 


The Van Courts. 


69 


they must be of the old English style, such as we see 
in country houses in that land of country homes. 
They must have high shelves built clear to the ceiling, 
looking very much as if one’s grandmother’s cup- 
board, with its rows of plates, had been brought in 
from the kitchen and suddenly planted down before 
one’s eyes. But the shelves of Mrs. Topping’s man- 
tlepiece were filled with all kinds of amateur produc- 
tions in the way of painted china and brass plaques. 

It was quite an affliction for little Topping to have 
to dress in mourning, but when she thought of the 
dear one, whose words to her were never harsher 
than ‘‘My dear, precious Jane,” they were a healing 
balm which compensated her for the most, as Carlyle 
would put it, the most blendingest, harmonisingest, 
artisticest costumes she might have worn in the last 
two years. For Mrs. Topping did not care to be con- 
sidered esthetic, nor Theosophic, nor Buddhistic, as 
so many of her sisters do, but simply artistic. She 
loved dress and would pay any price for it to trick 
out her small body, she would lavish hundreds of 
dollars on gewgaws, but she would scrimp and grind, 
when she came to spend a dollar to further the art, 
she affected to love so much. 

“Oh, how soothing,” she said, as she entered the 
door of her room, and threw herself into one of the 
white wicker arm-chairs, “to rest one’s eyes on some- 
thing decorative,” and Topping gazed at the corner 
of a fifteen-cent Chinese fan, the perspective of which 
was so thrilling that Topping couldn’t tell whether it 
was herself, or the Chinese figures that seemed to be 


70 


In the Market Place. 


walking off into space. ‘'It’s strange,” she mur- 
mured, reflectively, “that the Van Courts, with all 
their wealth, don’t decorate their home a little. It 
would kill me to live in such a barn, but Clara never 
did have any taste.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


IvAURKNCE: carst. 

The hands of the library clock had just pointed to 
SIX, seven being the dinner hour, at the Van Court 
house. Carrie was seated by an open window in her 
room, which was as pretty as old-fashioned massive 
furniture, white muslin curtains, a few bits of bright 
silk embroidery, a few sketches in oils of herself in 
different positions, made by a young artist, and this 
artist’s photograph standing on an easel, could make 
it, and showed that the occupant was not without her 
romance, which sooner or later comes into every 
young life. The soft scented air played lightly about 
her face, and tossed the stray rings that rippled over 
her brow. There was moisture in her large, dark 
eyes, as they gazed out on the old, splendid trees, 
whose leaves were tipped with the gold of the lower- 
ing sun, and answered all unheeded in their sweet 
whisperings, what her heart was asking. Her cheeks, 
that bad flushed but a few hours before with the glad- 
ness and brightness of youth, were now pale. The 
words so lightly spoken by her mother, in the morn- 
ing, and by her seemingly so carelessly received, had 
thfown a shadow over the day, and brought dark 
forebodings to her itiind. She knew her mother’s 

71 


72 


In the Market Place. 


weaker nature could be easily overcome, but her 
fdther; whatever his decision might be, in regard to 
her love for Nelson Lawrie, she would have to abide 
by it, and for the last two years it had been settled 
between him and her mother that Laurence Carst was 
to be her husband. 

She loved her father dearly, and honored him above 
all men, and their natures were similar in all respects, 
save where his was masculine, hers was essentially 
feminine. She was too young to have formed any in- 
dependent ideas of life ; she had been born and bred 
to luxury and wealth ; and had from infancy been sur- 
rounaed by young companions of her own station. 
If she had never met and become intimate with the 
Lawrie family, she would have gone on with no 
higher ambition than to become a brilliant society 
leader. Perhaps an exception to her kind, as she had 
many womanly graces and noble qualities of mind 
and heart. It was her visits to the Lawries’ home, 
for the purpose of receiving instructions from Mary 
in the training of her voice, and which brought her in 
contact with Gartha Rowland, that first made her 
think and feel that life was real, that it had a mean- 
ing; high ideals to be reached after, and that their 
lives as lived, and purpose in life,, was different from 
hers, and the idle people she met daily at her mother's 
house. Nelson and she had liked each other since 
they first met, and as they were thrown more and 
more together, his intelligence, a certain distin- 
guished bearing, manliness, a courtesy and graceful 
way of doing things, won her heart, while she dazajled 


Laurence Carst. 


73 


him with her beauty and lovely voice. Yet both knew 
there were obstacles in the way of their love, which 
caused their passion to grow deeper and stronger, as 
the days went by. 

She was roused from these thoughts, by hearing 
her father’s voice in the lower hall, then the voice of 
a younger man which sounded familiar. She rose up 
in her quick, impulsive way, and with a passionate 
movement of her head, wiped the tears from her eyes ; 
then crossed the floor and stood before her dressing 
case glass, raised her shapely arms and took the comb 
from her head and let her lustrous raven hair fall over 
her neck and shoulders. 

'‘I shall tell papa all, tell him that I do not love 
Laurence Carst, how can I when I compare him with 
Nelson Lawrie?” she said to herself, as she brushed 
out her long, inky tresses. ''I could make a fortune 
with my voice,” she murmured, rolling up the thick 
coils and fastening them with a white pearl comb, 
''but I fear I would fail in the attempt. I was born to 
this, I could never throw away my inheritance, nor 
my father’s love.” 

She robed herself in a pale blue dress of silk and 
wool, and pinned a crimson rose in her hair, and at 
her throat, and left the room. On her way down 
stairs, she saw Charlotte, her mother’s colored maid, 
drawing the invalid’s chair out to the front porch. As 
she entered the library where her father was seated 
with Laurence Carst, she greeted her father with a 
kiss on the cheek, then turned to Laurence, who had 
risen, and gave him her hand. 


74 


In the Market Place. 


‘Tapa must have been surprised to see you, as we 
did not expect you so soon,” she said, a faint blush 
suffusing her cheek. 

‘'It is as much of a surprise to myself, as it is to the 
Judge, to find myself here,” he answered, stroking his 
brown, silken goatee, with a white, delicate hand, and 
resting his light steely-blue eyes, softened for a mo- 
ment by a passing gleam of warmth, upon her. “It 
wanted but fifteen minutes to two when I had Dol- 
phus pack my valise, to meet the fast train which 
leaves Jefferson City at two-thirty. The Legislature 
does not adjourn for a month yet, but I got so 
deucedly tired of the place and the long debate over 
the Lenox gambling bill, that I wanted to take a run 
somewhere; anywhere for a change. Still the City 
and some people in it, had the most attraction for 
me,” and he pulled the corners of his mustache, and 
bowed graciously to Carrie. “Those fellows from the 
western districts of the state are as hard as flint to 
deal with, they have wills of iron.” 

“I am sure papa will enjoy your visit greatly,” said 
Carrie. 

“Always welcome to the Van Court domicile, my 
dear boy,” said the Judge, looking at Laurence with 
a flash of pride and affection in his fine, dark eyes. 

Laurence Carst was of medium height, but of a 
strong knit, willowy frame, and as graceful as a deer in 
all his movements. His hair, if a woman had combed 
it from her fair brow, would have been the envy of 
all her sisters. It was such a brown as the color 
of a maple leaf when touched by the first November 


Laurence Carst. 


75 


frosts, and lay thick and crinkly on his small but well 
shaped head. His heavy short cropped goatee and 
mustache, of the same shade, blended with his ruddy 
complexion and the light steel-blue of his eyes. His 
long, pointed nose, was the most aristocratic feature 
of his aristocratic face; his thin, flexible lips were 
never known to soften towards an opponent in a de- 
bate, or a conquered foe. He was considered the 
most brilliant orator in the state Legislature, older 
men saw in him a certain power to wield in the future, 
for good or evil ; and they predicted that it would not 
be long until he would be heard from in congress and 
the United States Senate. Women thought him hand- 
some and fascinating, and to be the recipient of his 
attentions was quite an uplifting in their own estima- 
tion. 

He was rich for a man of his age, the owner of a 
large plantation in Tennessee, left to him by his 
mother, a favorite cousin of the Judge, between 
whom a tender passion once existed. Green Lawn 
was the name of an estate of two thousand acres 
of the best farming land in the State of Missouri, 
and all under cultivation. This was his home, in- 
herited from his father, he being an only child. 
These two estates, with considerable real estate in the 
City, and his political aspirations, made him one of 
the most desirable matrimonial matches in the state. 
It had been understood for nearly two years between 
himself and the Judge, that he was to be his accepted 
son-in-law. He was now nearly thirty-four years of 
age, and a man must marry some time, especially a 


76 


In the Market Place. 


man who represented so much in solid wealth as he 
did. And who was more suited to be his wife than 
the young, lovely and accomplished daughter of 
Judge Van Court. 

Laurence Carst was a Southerner by birth and 
education, and blended with a cold, cynical nature, 
much of the South’s soft grace, and all its mellow, 
liquid speech. Although brought up from his cradle 
in a Christian household until he went to college, he 
soon, as he himself said, threw off all such old-time 
beliefs. And when he graduated from the Yale law 
school, he took nothing for granted; faith and re- 
ligion had no place in his vocabulary. Science and 
the law did away with all such stuff. Not that he was 
so deeply read in science or scientific discoveries, 
Darwin, Herbert Spencer, Tyndall, Huxley, and some 
oi the French scientists, had been skimmed over while 
at college. He never questioned whether science had 
any sophisms profane, and erroneous theories; that 
there was but human brains back of it, and that each 
human brain had its own amount of vanity, and that 
it was its business to upset the facts and so called 
theories of its fellow human brain, to make its own 
appear the greatest. Yet Carst had not, as he be- 
lieved, entirely shaken off or eradicated from his mind 
his early training; whatever was best and honest in 
him came from it, and the gentle mother who taught 
him at her knee to lisp the Lord’s Prayer. And what- 
ever stings of conscience he had in after years at 
misdeeds done in the body, were from the simple and 


Laurence Carst. 


77 

pure teachings of the Divine Master, he at this time 
affected to ignore. 

He entered politics as most men do of his time and 
generation, not to benefit their fellow-man, and to 
try and make better laws for the majority of strug- 
gling men and women; but from choice and love of 
power. In 1896, he had just made his debut in the 
political arena, and fought against Bryan on the silver 
question, with a blind prejudice and tenacity, in which 
he brought all his brilliant speech and vituperative 
sarcasms to bear. He was in no sense a democrat, 
only in name and party ; he had no sympathy with the 
masses, but was essentially a class man, and looked 
upon the toiling multitudes as so many canaille, the 
oxen to be hitched to the plough. He was a pro- 
nounced type of the young men of the present time, 
of his place, education and attainments. Cold, cyn- 
ical, unbelieving, no faith in one's own kind ; passion- 
less, yet full of greed, avarice and desires insatiable. 
What has produced or created this type, is a problem 
that is not the business of the novelist to enter into, 
theirs being simply to chronicle and draw with an 
artist's hand, the lights and shade of character. Per- 
haps it is the age we live in, for one sees them every- 
v/here ; in the trades, clerks, offices, business, profes- 
sions and politics. 

Still had Carst lived in the days of the renowned 
handsome, elegant Lord Hastings of Edward the 
Fourth's court, he might have laid claim to some of 
that interesting statesman's gifts, also some of his 


78 


In the Market Place. 


intrigues and libertinage. But, unlike the gallant 
Lord, he had never as yet had a real passion in his 
amours, never experienced a great love for any one 
woman, as Hastings did for Katherine Nevelle. But 
Laurence Carst was still young, and just stepping 
upon the threshold of his career, and had many quali- 
ties of character still undeveloped. 

As he rested his deep glance on Carrie’s full, 
rounded girlish figure there was admiration in it, but 
no love; at times he felt piqued at her indifference 
towards him, and there was something in her large, 
soft eyes, when she would raise them unconsciously 
to his face, that with all his polish of manner, he could 
not meet, for there was no guile in her heart, all was 
truth and innocence there. 

think I hear your mother coming down stairs,” 
said the Judge, rising, and going into the hall where 
he met his wife, leaning on the arm of Charlotte, her 
colored maid. ‘‘My dear Clara, Pm so glad you 
found courage to come down to dinner,” and he took 
her hand and lead her out to the front piazza and 
seated her in her own easy chair. 

“Tells ye what, massa, mistiss allers do pick up 
when Massa Laurence comes,” said Charlotte, wrap- 
ping a white wool shawl about her mistress’s shoul- 
ders. 

“I am pleased to see you looking so well, dear 
tousin,” said Laurence, bending low before Mrs. Van 
Court, and taking the white hand she held out to him 
in his larger and stronger one, but not less thin. 

“Really this is both a surprise and a pleasure, dear 


Laurence Carst. 


79 

Laurence. You are, of course you are going to be 
with us some time, I hope, make us quite a visit. 

''I am obliged to go South for a few weeks to attend 
to some business, then back to Green Lawn, where I 
shall be detained for a number of days with my stew- 
ard,’’ he answered, stroking his brown mustache. 

‘‘Has Carrie come down?” inquired Mrs. Van 
Court, a little agitated. 

“My dear, don’t worry about Carrie. She has been 
in the library with Laurence and myself for the last 
half hour, and I think she has gone to inquire of 
Frank the cause of the delay of dinner, as it is nearly 
an hour late,” replied the Judge, taking his watch 
from his vest pocket and looking at it, as he took two 
or three strides up and down the porch. 

“Our daughter has taken to doing all manner of 
odd things here lately, such as looking after the serv- 
ants for one, I think it best to let servants have their 
way, it saves so much trouble/’ said Mrs. Van Court, 
drawing a deep breath, as if exhausted from her late 
exertion. 

“Good,” returned the Judge, “my mother used to 
say that there was no house but that needed looking 
after, no servant so good but what required watch- 
ing.” 

“Then, Carrie, with all her accomplishments, does 
not disdain a knowledge of housekeeping,” rejoined 
Laurence, as he seated himself in one of the wicker 
chairs, beside his cousin. Mrs. Van Court gave Lau- 
rence one of her sweetest smiles, a woman is never 
too weak or too much of an invalid for the exercise of 


8o 


In the Market Place. 


her fascinations, especially when she has an object 
in view. 

Then Frank, the black butler, announced dinner, 
and Carrie made her appearance in the doorway of 
the hall; her father took her arm and led the way, 
Carst followed with Mrs. Van Court. The dining- 
room was a large, square room, with a polished floor 
of oak and walnut, a great carved sideboard of old 
antique oak, stood in an alcove of the wall. The oak 
chairs were cushioned in crimson leather; a fine 
bronze clock, ornamented the white marble mantle- 
piece, some engravings of hunting scenes, after Sir 
Edwin Landseer, hung on the panelled walls, and the 
high, broad windows which reached from floor to ceil- 
ing, opened onto a porch, where the honeysuckle 
vines twined up about its posts, and filled the room 
with delicious odors. Judge Van Court believed in 
the ceremonies of the dinner table, the old Southern 
regime was carried out to the letter in the hospitality 
of the house. There was no place where a gentleman 
showed himself a gentleman so much as at his own 
table. So thought the Judge, and he behaved accord- 
ingly. And at this dinner, and every day the table 
groaned under the weight of solid silver, rare china, 
cut-glass, and all the plenteousness and delicacies of 
the season. 

When the different courses had been served, and 
dinner finished, the family rose and went to the 
library, where, after a few minutes’ pleasant converse, 
Carst led Carrie to the piano. He was a great lover 
of music, and a fine feminine voic^ was as much of a 


Laurence Carst. 


8i 


pleasure and exhilaration to him as a glass of the 
rarest old port, or sparkling champagne, of which he 
was very fond. 

''It has been some time since I had the pleasure of 
hearing you sing,’' he said, standing by her side, while 
he helped her to select a favorite song, "and from 
what I have been told, your voice has improved be- 
yond all our expectations ; not but what I have ever 
thought your voice the sweetest and most bird-like I 
have ever heard,” he added, passing his delicate white 
hand with its gleaming ruby ring on the little finger, 
through the heavy shocks of his russet tinted hair, 
with no softness in the steely glitter of his eyes, as 
he rested them on the curls that kissed both her neck 
and cheek. 

"Thank you,” she replied, with a blush, "your 
praise both flatters and encourages me, and I shall 
keep on trying to do better.” 

Then aria after aria followed, singing them with 
such sweetness and pathos, pouring out her whole 
soul in the rich notes ; in the swells and vibrations 
that rang out through the forest trees, until they 
seemed to bend and sway to their melody. 

"Pray, who is your teacher?” inquired Laurence, 
when she had finished. 

"A Miss Lawrie,” she answered, glancing at her 
mother. 

"I must admit you have improved wonderfully 
under her tuition,” said Carst, with an air of interest. 

"My daughter, you will have to invite Miss Lawrie 
to dinner some day,” said the Judge. Rising from 
6 


82 


In the Market Place. 


beside his wife and placing his hands behind his back, 
he took two or three strides up and down the library 
floor. 

''Oh, papa, I shall be delighted to do so, but I am 
afraid Mary will not accept, she is so very shy and 
retiring, besides being quite eccentric ; but you would 
find her exceedingly interesting.’’ 

Then Carrie rose and left the library, and Laurence 
Carst, who did not want to leave the Van Court man- 
sion, or his cousin, the Judge, or the Judge’s wife, 
without a full and decided understanding that the 
Judge’s daughter was to be his bride, asked for her 
hand. 

"You are the only man, out of all Carrie’s would-be 
suitors, whom I am willing to trust her future and her 
happiness to ; I consider you in every sense a fit hus- 
band for one so gifted by nature, and with every 
social advantage of wealth, and position,” said the 
Judge, whose fine head with its white hair, his pierc- 
ing black eyes and handsome face, were set off by the 
deep red silk plush of the easy-chair, he was seated 
in. "You are of the old stock, the blood of the Van 
Courts, and Van Houstans, flow in your veins. You 
have wealth and great talent, and I hope in a few 
years to see you in the United States Senate. No 
reason in the world why you shouldn’t go there. And 
when once in Washington, your voice heard in the 
halls of the white Capitol, making and unmaking laws 
for your country,” continued the Judge, "I hope Car- 
rie will then teach the hurrying, hurrying, elbowing 
mob, a lesson ; yes, sir, a lesson. She has something 


Laurence Carst. 


83 

besides mere money to back her. I believe in blood, 
sir. I am an aristocrat, but no snob, and when Mrs. 
Senator this and Mrs. Senator that, gives a dinner 
party, where the guests walk on violets and crushed 
roses, I hope my daughter will show her good breed- 
ing by giving her dinners simplex munditiis. I am 
a Greek in that respect ; their luxury was the essence 
of delicacy, toned down to the most exquisite refine- 
ment,’’ said the Judge. Rising and walking to the 
mantlepiece, he leaned his back against it a moment, 
then made a few paces across the floor and seated 
himself again. 

‘Xet me just give you a little advice, my dear 
cousin ; advice is seldom thankfully received, but you 
will be running for Congress next year. I am an 
older man than you, I myself hate politics, never 
could endure the mob that a politician must neces- 
sarily come in contact with. When you go to the 
halls of Congress, which of course you will, never 
lend assistance to any scheme where money is to be 
the reward. You will have plenty of such overtures 
made to you; even a Judge of the state courts has 
plenty of them ; but if you consent you are lost, for 
sooner or later the very men whom you serve m that 
way, if at any time you should happen to stand be- 
tween them and their advancement in public favor, 
would be the first to crush you with this very same 
weapon, when chance afforded them an opportunity.” 

Nothing could be more easy and graceful than 
Laurence Carst’s position, as he sat or rather reclined 
in his chair^ with his head thrown back, his elbows 


84 


In the Market Place. 


resting on its arms. And there was a strange gleam 
in his steel, blue eyes, and a cynical smile played 
about his thin lips, as he listened to the Judge, and 
stroked his brown silken goatee. 

''Laurence, my dear,’’ said Mrs. Van Court, play- 
fully. Laurence was all attention, his smile changing 
to one of interest, and something like warmth taking 
the place of the cold glitter in his eyes. One thing 
Laurence never forgot and that was his Southern 
courtesy, to the opposite sex, "how can you be so 
selfiish as to want to take my daughter from me, my 
only daughter ; how am I to live without her, my Car- 
rie? She is all devotion to me, anticipates all my 
wants and wishes and seldom leaves my side. My 
beautiful Carrie, my dear daughter. Still, my dear 
Laureiice,” she went on in a pathetic tone of voice. 
"I cannot live very long, at best, but a few years at 
the farthest, and when the time comes that I must bid 
farewell to Carrie, my dear husband and to life, what 
a consolation it will be to know that I leave her in the 
keeping of a husband who adores her, who will be all 
devotion to her.” 

"My dear cousin,” returned Laurence, bending 
over and taking her white hand, that rested listlessly 
on her lap, in his, "remember in giving Carrie to me, 
you are not losing a daughter, but gaining a son. The 
more love and devotion she shows to you, is an evi- 
dence she will not want in the affection and sympathy 
a husband requires from a wife.” 

"My dear Laurence, how very generous of you, 
you are in every way fitted to be the husband of our 


Laurence Carst. 


85 

beautiful daughter/’ replied Mrs. Van Court, tapping 
her fan in a quick nervous way against the arm of her 
chair. ‘‘I can think of no future for Carrie,” she 
added with a twitching of her eye-lids, ‘'but one 
strewn with roses.” 

"Clara, that is foolishness ; the old adage is a true 
one, 'There is no rose without a thorn/ ” said the 
Judge, "and Carrie is too much of a woman to expect 
her roses without thorns.” 

"Howard, Judge, you frighten me, our daughter is 
too much inclined to that way of thinking now. You 
will, my dear Howard, have to be very guarded about 
what you say in that respect before Carrie,” rejoined 
Mrs. Van Court, dropping her fan in her lap, and 
rubbing the palms of her hands in an agitated 
manner. 

"Carrie is a Van Court, a conservative ; she can be 
aristocratic and democratic when it suits her; there 
is no more democratic person than a man or woman 
born of a long and pure line of ancestry,” said the 
Judge, with a bright glance at his wife. 

Laurence Carst looked at the library clock, then at 
his watch, and as Carrie did not make her appearance 
he rose saying he had an engagement at the Delavand 
House at nine o’clock, and would return later. 

"Howard, my dear Howard, I must speak to you 
about our Carrie; I fear she has already imbibed 
strange notions of life from those very peculiar 
people,” said Mrs. Van Court, when she and the 
Judge had retired to their room. 


CHAPTER VII. 


the: music oi^ the magic etut^. 

It had been one of those early June days, indolent 
in warmth, with delicious, dreamy skies, which lend 
their hues to blend with the tender colors of opening 
bud and leaf. A day when earth gives us a foretaste 
of heaven, when the air is laden with all the sweet, 
wild odors of fields and woods, songs of birds, gentle 
zephyrs, that linger in kisses on the cheeks of mor- 
tals. It was a day that faded and deepened into a 
soft, misty twilight. The windows of the sitting-room 
of the Lawrie Cottage were all open, a student lamp 
burned on each end of the piano, and one on the 
center table, shedding a halo of mellow light over the 
table, and making all other objects in the room re- 
cede into shadowy lines. Mary was seated at the 
instrument and standing by her side and accompany- 
ing her on the flute was a thick-set, picturesque look- 
ing man of nearly thirty-six or forty years of age. 
His hair was an iron gray, and stood straight up from 
his fine brow, back from his ears in a so^t of bushy 
negligence. His beard was thick and cut in Vandyke 
style; his thick, drooping mustache partially con- 
cealed a mouth where sweetness, delicacy, and ex- 
quisite refinement, all found a resting place. It was 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 87 

a mouth that any woman would have loved to have 
kissed, as she would that of a baby, so free was it 
from all grossness and sensuality. His large, flashing, 
black eyes, indicated something of the smouldering 
fire, mingled with the sadness and poetry of his race, 
and matched well with his rich dark Italian skin. His 
dress was a little on the careless order, his old- 
fashioned black cloth coat hung loose from his shoul- 
ders, his shirt bosom, though spotlessly white, looked 
mussed and crumpled, the wrist-bands turned back 
from a small, white hand, presumably to hide their 
frayed edges. His trousers, to be in harmony with 
the rest of his attire, were large and ample, and so 
wide at the bottom that they almost covered his ex- 
ceedingly small feet. 

Carl Goetze's grandparents were Germans and 
were quite young when they left their native land, 
in search of riches in the new country. They had two 
children, a boy and girl ; the boy going South married 
an Italian beauty, who was the mother of Carl. She 
died, leaving Carl at the age of twelve years mother- 
less. His father, not knowing what to do with his 
boy, sent him to an Eastern school in New ’York 
State, near the great City, where he also attended 
the best art schools. At the expiration of his school 
term he plead with his father to send him abroad for 
a few years to pursue his art studies ; his father, wish- 
ing to do all he could for his only son, gave him what 
he could spare from his comfortable but limited in- 
come. After his return from Europe, where he had 
spent three years, he was induced by hearing of the 


88 


In the Market Place. 


wealth of the cities of the West, and Southwest, to 
emigrate, thinking he would not have so many older 
and more famous men to compete with. But Carl 
found the West too much absorbed in money-making, 
to care to take interest in art. 

Carl was not a genius, the bright wings of that 
divine gift had never brushed his brow with its flame, 
and perhaps better for him it hadn’t. (Genius is not 
to be envied ; its sufferings are deeper ; its pains more 
poignant; its struggles greater; its reward less, and 
it is seldom understood during the life of its posses- 
sor.) But Carl had a great deal of talent, giving to 
his sitters honest and sincere work, far in advance of 
the small sums he received in payment for his labor ; 
that is, if we measure talent and brains by the money 
it brings. He had no faculty for getting the rich to 
his studio, besides it was a poor place, to take those 
who were accustomed to wealth and luxury. It was 
in the fourth story of an old building, and was meanly 
and scantily furnished, so far as mere furniture went ; 
but the .walls from the washboard up to the ceiling, 
were rich indeed, rich in thought and color. They 
were covered with studies of heads, the human figure 
in every position; copies of the old Masters, made 
for the sake of color. The floor was bare, without 
tint or polish, nor was it ever very clean, the dust 
generally lying thick on the chairs, and easels, on the 
sketches, picture frames, and the few old models. Not 
but what he paid well the owner of the illustrious 
name of Washington Scott, a young negro, to take 
care of his studio and sleeping room. But Wash- 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 89 

ington Scott found him so easy, so indifferent to his 
own comfort, so thoughtless of his own interests, that 
Washington Scott, true to the characteristics of the 
black race, shirked all he could. 

''Oh, my life, you're a shiftless fellow, Scott," Carl 
would exclaim, when things got to looking too bad, 
"I shall have to dismiss you, I shall not listen to any 
more excuses, you keep my house in shameful order, 
that I blush to my hair, when my sitters come." 

Carl would never observe the dust or cobwebs, 
until his sitters awakened him to some sense of their 
thickness. Washington Scott would answer with 
a grin: "Wal, Massa Gots, Tse, Tse ben jes so 
run wid wok, it 'pears like ebery genaman wants his 
office tended to fust. An’ Nancy, my ole woman, 
she's ben sick an kem mighty neah gibben up de 
ghost ; yes, sah, taken night fo' las, shuah as you lib, 
Massa Gots." Washington Scott would grin, and for 
the next day or two clean a little more thoroughly, 
but before the end of the week Washington Scott 
would drift into his usual shiftless habits. 

Carl was one of the artists who did not know how 
to put his money to the best use ; it is true his income 
was small, but had he spent it to advantage it would 
have been more than sufficient for his needs, as his 
wants and tastes were simple. Still we cannot nar- 
row down broad and generous natures, to the mean- 
est of economies ; yet, how often the generous na- 
tures are a prey to the grasping and avaricious. How 
well the freckled faced waiter, at the little restaurant 
where he ate his meals, knew when had more than 


90 


In the Market Place. 


his usual amount of change, twenty-five cents at the 
end of the week, was not enough for extra attention, 
it had to be fifty. Did ever a ragged bare-footed boy 
or girl, who looked pleadingly up into his face, go 
away empty handed ? Didn’t Washington Scott cheat 
him in every possible way, by appropriating every 
article of clothing, he happened to find lying ’round 
loose ; such as neck-ties, pocket handkerchiefs, 
hosiery, and all such like, that fell in his way, and he 
thought Carl wouldn’t miss. Didn’t Mrs. Lanagan 
wash his linen in water mixed with lye, sometimes in 
soda, and other ingredients, that are left so mys- 
teriously at the back doors of our homes, with the 
knowledge that the servants are positively forbidden 
to use them. 

'‘My soul,” he would cry, exasperated beyond en- 
durance, "it isn’t but a few months since I bought 
myself a whole new outfit of linen, and now it is all 
falling to pieces.” Mrs. Lanagan would do this not- 
withstanding she had soap and plenty of water, and 
with a little honest labor could have returned his 
wash, cleaner, smelling sweeter, and with a clear con- 
science and good feeling, that his linen would last a 
year longer. But why blame the Mrs. Lanagans, they 
only imitate those in higher places. 

Carl had been coming to Tanglewood for nearly 
three years ; he was introduced to the Lawrie family 
by Nelson Lawrie, Nelson and he having met a year 
before at the studio of an artist friend. It was one of 
those occasions where two opposite natures meet, 
and instead of being antagonistic, each have a strange 


9i 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 

attraction for the other. Carhs careless bonhomie, 
his unselfishness, his freedom from petty jealousies; 
his desire to give Nelson the benefit of what he had 
gained in his many more years of experience ; and a 
certain picturesqueness, which charmed and enter- 
tained the younger man. To Carl the freshness of 
Nelson’s youth, the fine, handsome face and figure, 
the love and enthusiasm for his profession, and above 
all his genius ; these were a constant source of delight 
to him when in his company. 

‘‘Oh, my life, you possess that which no master can 
teach, that which the great Master of all has endowed 
you with, genius,” Carl would exclaim, as he paced 
up and down the floor of Nelson’s studio after view- 
ing one of his paintings. 

“Yes, my dear Carl, but how few have that next 
best gift, the power to recognize genius, when set 
before them in any particular work, if it steps out of 
the beaten track,” would be Nelson’s reply. 

“You’re right; few have it; few possess it.” 

Carl had no loved ones, but an aunt who was his 
mother’s sister, and his godmother. She lived in a 
small village on the Hudson river. So Tanglewood 
had become a second home, and most of his leisure 
half hours were spent with Nelson and Mary. He 
had learned to love the strange and gentle girl, to 
see the beauty of her nature, to understand her 
whims and peculiarities, which were a part of the 
fatal gift, genius, as she also, like her brother Nelson 
in painting, had genius in music. Sometimes she 
would receive him in a mood all brightness and 


92 


In the Market Place. 


gayety then her smile was fascinating, lingering a 
while in the curves of the kind mouth, then stealing 
slowly over the features until it rested in the eyes^ 
where it shot out like a sunbeam from under the long 
lashes, lighting up the plain face, and giving it a 
beauty of its own. At such times her conversation 
would be bright, piquant and witty. Then, again, 
when he came, she would receive him with a face pale 
and void of expression, the drooping lids half closed 
over the eyes, the delicate hands limp and seemingly 
unable to move. In these moods she would hardly 
speak, it was when she seated herself at the piano 
that she showed what power was in the slim, tapering 
fingers, what music and sweetness were in her touch, 
what depth of feeling lurked behind her fragile frame. 

Carl paid no heed to these little eccentricities, but 
loved her more and more as the days went by. He 
had never spoken to her of his love, as he felt too 
poor to think of marrying, but kept hope green in his 
heart, and waited patiently for better times. She, on 
the other hand, felt that his companionship and de- 
votion had become necessary to her happiness, and 
that life would be intolerable, an utter blank without 
his presence ; but as for marriage, she could not think 
of it. She was not very strong, and she could not 
make up her mind to leave her mother, and her 
mother’s home. Oh, no, she could not think of mar- 
rying. Oh, no, not yet. 

“My soul, what perfect time you keep; how those 
slender fingers make the instrument speak,” cried 
Carl, as they finished an aria from the loveliest, but 


93 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 

now almost forgotten opera, ‘The Magic Flute/’ He 
laid his flute on the piano, and picked up from the 
music stand, near him, a palm leaf fan, and began 
waving it to and fro in a vigorous way. 

“Every day we play together I can see that we im- 
prove,” said Mary, raising her limpid eyes to his face, 
with one of her slow, sweet smiles, that would be as 
sunshine to his heart for hours. 

“I believe, mother, you have been asleep,” said 
Mary, turning around on the piano stool, as Mrs. 
Lawrie yawned and began rubbing her eyes. 

“Oh, dear no, who could sleep while listening to 
such heavenly music? I have not been sitting here at 
all, Mary, dear, but carried up, up, to where the 
saints dwell ; to a land where there is no toil nor pain, 
nothing but sweet peace, rest, joy and love forever. 
It has been many a day, since I have heard yourself 
and Carl play anything in the way of music that is so 
soulful and restful as the piece you have just now 
finished,” said Mrs. Lawrie, her brown eyes moist 
and her manner less calm than her wont. 

“I am so pleased, Madame Lawrie, to hear you 
speak so appreciatingly of the music of ‘The Magic 
Flute.’ I myself think it very fine. Ah, those old 
composers, nothing like them now; the heart is all 
out of things, and there is neither tune, tone, nor 
feeling in our time,” returned Carl, who still kept up 
a great fanning. 

“If father were here he would say our playing un- 
fitted mother to dwell on this earth,” said Mary, who 
loved to tease her mother in an affectionate way 


94 


In the Market Place. 


''Your father has gone to his room, and I must fol- 
low, but don't stop playing, Mary dear, as the flute 
sounds sweeter a little distance off," said Mrs. Law- 
rie, and rising she went out to the dining-room, but 
soon returned, bringing in her hand a pitcher of cool 
water. 

"Here is a fresh drink, Mary ; I thought Carl would 
like one, and I wonder what keeps Gartha out so 
late." 

"I do wish Carl would stop blowing that eternal, 
long-winded machine of his, I want to go to sleep," 
said Peter, as his wife opened the door of their room, 
and strains of the "Last Rose of Summer" swept 
across his ear. Peter had already turned in, his lanky 
form stretched out full length, his feet touching the 
lower posts of the bed, and his night-cap almost con- 
cealing his face. 

"I don't think a long-winded machine an appro- 
priate name to give to any musical instrument, espe- 
cially the flute," answered Mrs. Lawrie, closing the 
door to soften the sound that came from the sitting- 
room. 

"Wal, Susan, you always did tower, I don't tower 
in that direction myself, besides I never could stand 
that etarnal banging and blowing. In the morning 
I don't mind it so much as I'm in the garden, or down 
ii the orchard, but at night in the house, it makes my 
ears sing and my head buzz worse than screeching 
children at a Sunday-school." 

"You’re very selfish, Peter; you forget how you 
stop me right in the midst of my pie and bread bak- 


95 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 

ing, to have me listen to the long political articles in 
the weekly, and if I object, you’re terribly put out. 
You know you like me to listen, but I don’t care 
about politics,” replied Mrs. Lawrie, taking her spec- 
tacles off and wiping them carefully before she laid 
them in one corner of her work-basket, their usual 
bed for the night. 

''Wal, jist so, exactly jist so ; I don’t tower, I know, 
Susan, but every man and woman should be con- 
versant enough with politics to know who the Presi- 
dent of the United States is, but blame me, mother, 
if you could tell whether it is Cleveland or McKinley 
the present occupant of the White House, if I didn’t 
keep you informed by reading the Weekly to you, 
an’ you ought to be thankful that I’m so obliging,” 
responded Peter, triumphantly, blinking at his wife 
from under his night-cap. 

^'Indeed, father, you should be very grateful that I 
listen; it does you so much good to have me for an 
audience.” 

^'Wal, it’s kind a nateral, that I should want to in- 
struct you and have you participate in what I enjoy.’^ 

"'Hush now, Peter, and go to sleep ; I want to listen 
to this piece they are playing,” said Mrs. Lawrie, 
closing her eyes and snuggling down her head on the 
pillow, preparatory to going up, up, where the saints 
dwell. 

"You’re etarnally towering, mother,” growled 
Peter, turning over on his side, where he was soon 
lost in the variations of snoring, which was anything 
but in harmony with the variations of "Whisper What 


f 


In the Market Place. 


96 

Thou Feelest/’ that Carl was then pouring out in 
long passionate strains of soul pleading love, on his 
flute. Yet, one could see no response to them in the 
expression of Mary’s face. The features were still as 
marble, the eye-lids half closed, as the thin flexible 
fingers swept over the keys ; how delicate and tender 
their touch, what emotion, what intensity, quivers 
through every fibre of her fragile frame, as she strikes 
each note, and gives Carl the prelude to time. 

But Carl thinks only of the music, and what he 
wishes to express through it; his face is flushed, the 
veins in his forehead stand out in cords, his throat 
swells, his chest heaves, his eyes are raised to tl e ceil- 
ing, with a look of ecstasy. Now he bends low, as if 
he would pour out all the pent-up feelings of his 
heart, in her ear. He bends to the right, and to the 
left, now his head is thrown back, and as the sweet 
notes float out on the soft night winds, the night 
made dreamy by a pale, crescent moon; the birds 
wake up and answer in tender twitters ; the moths and 
beetles dance to them ; while hundreds come trooping 
in through the windows, humming and buzzing, and 
chasing each other so mad are they with frolic and 
fun. The buttercups open their dewy gold leaves; 
the daisies modestly listen ; the peach and apple 
bloom send forth their perfume to greet them ; they 
swell and vibrate through the trees ; until they seem 
to bend and sway in echoing responses. Then the 
oaks carry them to the maples, the maples to the 
elms, and the elms waft them over the house-tops to 
Forest Grove and whisper them in the ear of a young 


97 


The ^Music of the Magic Flute. 

girl, standing at the gate, her face pale, her large 
antelope eyes gazing wistfully towards Tanglewood. 

^'My life, what perfect time you keep, what inspira- 
tion in those slender fingers,” said Carl, laying his 
flute on the music stand, which stood near the piano, 
and taking Mary's hand between his two palms, he 
lifted it to his lips. Then they both rose and went 
out to the front porch. 'T wonder where Nelson 
went,” remarked Mary, as she seated herself in one 
of the wicker chairs. 

'T think I saw the light of his cigar pass the win- 
dow, but a second ago, perhaps he and Gartha have 
gone for a stroll down to the river bank, to study 
moonlight effect on the water; and where Nelson 
fails to find beauty, Gartha will suggest it, for she is 
all moonlight herself,” returned Carl taking a chair 
beside her. Then running his hand down in the 
ample pocket of his coat, he brought up his large 
meerschaum pipe. ‘'You're very kind to allow me 
this privilege,” he said, striking a match. 

“You have had that privilege for the last three 
years, yet you always speak of it as one recently 
granted,” replied Mary with a quiet smile. 

“I would forget the courtesy due you, if I did not 
speak of it, it is such a great privilege to be allowed 
to smoke in your presence. My life, what a beautiful 
night it is, how I wish I were twenty years younger,” 
he said, thoughtfully, as he puffed the light smoke 
from his lips. 

“Why should you wish to be twenty years younger? 
I should think the twenty years more added to your 
7 


In the Market Place. 


98 

life would be to your advantage in experience/’ re- 
plied Mary, with a glance of tenderness from under 
the drooping lids. 

“But when one has lost so many opportunities, and 
time, that cannot be recalled, besides one cannot 
always grasp things, and make them subservient to 
one’s wishes ; I mean that one is not always equal to 
the situation.” 

“But with these exceptions you can begin over 
again and improve the present, and look to the future 
for the results hoped for,” she answered quietly, but 
with sympathy. 

“Yes, but it is so hard to retrace one’s steps,” he 
returned, with a long pull at his pipe. My love, you 
look pale tonight,” he said tenderly, after a pause of 
some minutes, hugging close his meerschaum, “are 
you not feeling well?” He took her hand in his. 

“I am never so strong in warm weather ; I lose my 
color and grow thin, but when the cool days come I 
pick up and regain my flesh and strength. 

“I have been coming here a long time, — yes, a long 
time,” he said, still holding her hand, “but to me the 
last three years have been the happiest of my life. I 
have been hoping and waiting for better things, for 
something better to offer you, Mary, than what I 
have.” His voice was low, as if the words were chok- 
ing his utterance. “I have but little of this world’s 
goods,” he continued, after a silence of some mo- 
ments, “if you will accept of that little and risk the 
future with me, I shall try to make you happy, and 
;^vill 1 qv<! and cherish you until the end,” he stopped 


99 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 

here, the last syllable dying away in a hoarse whisper. 

‘'Dearest Carl, I am aware of all you say ; willingly 
would I share your lot, your love is and has been 
untold riches to me; still I think we had better wait 
a while longer; I do not feel yet as if I could leave 
father and mother. Nelson talks of going to Europe 
in the course of a year or two, to remain some time ; 
the house is large, and if he goes, we can have his 
part of it, as I know mother will not listen to my 
leaving her for another home.’^ And Mary laid her 
other hand fondly over the one that held hers. 

“Whatever you say, dear, it is for you to decide, 
but we are bound to each other for all time and 
'eternity.” 

“For all time and eternity,” repeated Mary, as they 
both rose and stood with clasped hands. 

“Yes, my love, my love, for all time and eternity,” 
said Carl, as he wound his arms about her neck, and 
kissed the cheek that nestled close to his. 

Nelson and Gartha had strayed down to the gate, 
where they lingered a while, then took the path that 
led to the river. It was still early twilight when they 
started for their walk, faint rays of crimson, violets 
and russet-gold lingered in the western sky. The 
robins and brown thrush gladdened their mates, with 
the sweet melody of their evening song. Through 
the tree branches they now and then caught sight of 
the sparkling water, the sail boats, and small yachts 
which glided up and down its rippled surface. While 
up from the bottom-lands, blowing soft and cool, 
fragrant June winds, as they piiged arm in 

L.ofC. 


lOO 


In the Market Place. 


arm, along the roadway, filled with the scent of wild 
flowers. Not as lovers, but as friends, that exalted 
friendship which can only exist between exalted na- 
tures. Nelson unburdened his heart to her, and told 
her of his love for Carrie Van Court. 

‘'At first,’’ he began, “when I found myself thinking 
of her, I scoffed at the idea that I should ever be 
silly enough to allow myself to fall in love ‘with any 
woman, until I had made both name and fame, and 
had at least sufficient income to keep a wife in com- 
fort. But as the days went by and I saw her warm- 
hearted, impulsive nature, her girlish beauty unfold 
to a more mature womanhood, my love for her grew 
stronger and stronger, until now it almost maddens 
me to think of her going to marry a man who has no 
love for her, but a passion for another woman; this 
woman is related to Carst through her husband. If 
Carrie marries Laurence Carst, I shall go to Europe 
for a year or two, and spend it in studying the great 
Masters of Italy and France; in that way I hope to 
forget her. He who rules our destinies takes a 
strange course if His hand is in this ; for with the 
expectation and hope of some day gaining her for a 
wife, what would I not strive for, what would I not 
work for !” 

Gartha stood still and laid her hand gently on his 
arm. “My dear Nelson,” she said, raising her clear 
eyes to his with compassion, “if we cannot prevent 
this unfortunate and unholy marriage ; if we have no 
power to save our lovely and lovable Carrie; if she 


lOI 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 

will not save herself from the saddest and most 
wretched fate that can befall a woman, that of marry- 
ing one man, while her heart is another’s, let it not 
dim your enthusiasm, your ambition to succeed in 
your art. Turn to your work with all the more de- 
termination to gain a name, and attain to eminence 
in your profession. Do not pander to existing false 
conditions of things, let the world see you are a mas- 
ter, form its taste, do not let it form yours. It is 
willing enough to be taught, willing enough to follow 
a leader, let him be false or true. Dear Nelson, go 
back to your work, pursue it with all the more dili- 
gence, and believe me you will find consolation in it 
for a wounded heart. Perhaps, like Wilhelm Meister, 
it is but the beginning of your apprenticeship.” 

''Oh, Gartha, how you help and aid me with your 
better council; and may I ever be worthy of it,” he 
said, raising her hand to his lips and reverently kiss- 
ing it. 

"See yonder,” she exclaimed, standing still and 
pointing towards the west. Nelson forgot his 
troubles ; the artist was predominant in him. 

"I declare it’s fine,” he cried with delight, as he 
drank in the beauty of a crescent moon, looking like 
a bow of reddish gold tipped on the edge of a long 
series of curdy clouds, as it sank in the west, its faint 
light falling on the water, whose ripples tossed it 
back again, until it seemed like hundreds of gems, 
shining out of the deep shadows. And streaking 
with argent softness the white sails th^t glided up 


102 


In the Market Place. 


and down like spirits which had come to earth to 
revel for a while in the sensuous night. 

They were on their way home, when a young man 
came walking towards them. glorious night,’’ 

was his salute to Nelson, as he passed them, holding 
a lighted cigar in his hand. 

‘^That was Arthur Lowell, the young professor 
who is at the head of the great Fine Art Academy, 
and considered one of the handsomest young men in 
the City. He tried for a long time to make a success 
as an artist, but he failed. He is highly connected, 
and was sent to Europe by a near relative who is 
rich; he studied there four years; but can’t paint 
>vorth a cent. When he returned to his own country 
and City, the gentlemen who built the Academy of 
Design, and gave it to the City, placed him at the 
head of it, and it has flourished ever since. He seems 
at last to have found his true vocation.” 

^'His executive ability being higher than his art- 
istic,” said Gartha. 

When they reached home Carl had gone and Mary 
had retired. Gartha went to her own room, the win- 
dows opened onto the upper porch, she stepped out 
and stood a moment gazing at the night, the moon 
had gone down, and the purple dome above her was a 
wealth of glimmering stars, and all about her was 
shifting lights and shadows. 

‘T wonder if this Arthur Lowell is the young man 
I met a few weeks ago at the Academy,” she said to 
herself, ‘‘He was so polite and attentive! He took 


The Music of the Magic Flute. 103 

pains to explain to me something about most of the 
prominent paintings there. Ah, me, have I, too, a 
destiny, a fate?’’ She murmured aloud, and going in, 
she closed the shutters of the windows about her. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


SOCIETY AT THE VAN COURTS. 

It was the last day in June, society had separated 
and parcelled itself off, as it were, some had gone up 
the Mississippi to the Northern Lakes, others to 
White Sulphur Springs, and a few to the Eastern 
watering places. Mrs. Calwald had flown to her Cot- 
tage at Long Branch, Mrs. Barton Hamstead had 
gone to Europe, to visit her ' wo daughters whom she 
had left near the French Capital at school. The lovely 
Mrs. General Camden had started early for her Cot- 
tage in the Berkshire hills, Freddy Faboult and young 
Henderson had not returned from abroad since the 
summer before they had left college, but the reader 
will meet them all in due time. The part of society 
that remained, thought what a bore it was, what a 
sacrifice to personal comfort, to have to wait in the 
hot, stifling city for the eighteenth birthday, the com- 
ing out of the only daughter and heiress of Judge Van 
Court. ''How stupid,’’ remarked society, "to have 
this affair take place in the heat of summer ; why not 
wait until late in the fall, when everybody is at home.” 
But my dear society. Judge Van Court is a gentle- 
man, one of the old regime; he would not take his 
daughter to the springs until she had made her debut 
104 


Society at the Van Courts. 105 

in the social world, and she could not make her debut 
until she was eighteen, the proper age, according to 
the Judge's thinking. 

The Van Court mansion and the Van Court 
grounds are ablaze with light and music ; music from 
the band, from stringed instruments, from the rustle 
of silks and satins, the pitter-patter of many feet in 
the dancing tent, as they keep time to the swelling 
notes of Strauss that float out on the gentle south 
winds, in soft sensuous strains. There is light from 
hundreds of lanterns, that hang on the trees ; light 
from flashing gems on white arms and bosoms ; from 
beautiful eyes that burn and glow with human pas- 
sions, joy, love, jealousy and hate. 

Carrie stands beside her father, radiant in a cloud 
of white, a fillet of diamonds banding her raven hair ; 
gems fasten the filmy gauze on her bosom; they 
glisten on her arms, and loop up and flame out here 
and there, from the soft drapery of her dress. A 
faint flush like that of the peach is on her cheek, and 
her eyes, dark and deep as night, look upon the gay 
scene with all the gladness and hope of youth. Mrs. 
Van Court is seated in an easy chair beside her 
daughter ; she is dressed in gray satin and point lace. 
There are jewels at her throat, and on her arms, and 
they gleam and scintillate from the comb which 
fastens the coils of her brown hair. The throng 
brings animation to her delicate features, color to her 
pale cheeks, and brightness to her dim eyes, which 
twitch all the more nervously as she tries to receive 
her guests with composure. Laurence Carst stands 


io6 In the Market Place. 

to the left of Mrs. Van Court, his evening dress fits 
to perfection his slight, elegant figure, looking as if 
moulded to his person. His face is flushed with wine, 
his long aristocratic nose, the thin yet sensual lips, 
the gleaming white teeth, and the cold, blue eyes, 
that gaze on the throng with a sinister expression, 
tell of the man of the world, and his ambition to stand 
out as a leader of the throng, although he did not 
believe in it, he saw only the lower and grosser part of 
it, he pandered to this phase of it, it pandered to 
him, and he gave back only that which he was capable 
of receiving. 

To his right stands Madame Bogardus. Madame 
is never to be found far away from Laurence in any 
gathering of their social set. She is clad in a robe 
of rich, creamy satin embroidered in gold, which re- 
veals every line of her superb body, from the volup- 
tuous swell of her bosom, where rubies nestle, send- 
ing out their red light, as from hills of snow, down 
to the undulating curves of her limbs, where it sweeps 
away on the floor in yards of costly lace. Rubies 
encircle her neck, her magnificent arms, and bind the 
coils of her yellow hair. Madame has pearls in her 
mouth, not that she ever dropped pearls of thought 
from that mouth for it is a full red-lipped sensual 
mouth, with no upward curves, but drawn down at 
the corners. Madame’s pearls match the tints of her 
hair and skin, but her eyes, as she waves her per- 
fumed point lace fan, what shall I say of them ? They 
are large, yellowish-gray orbs, something like those 
of a Maltese Tom cat, and like Tom, when wishing to 


Society at the Van Courts. 107 

fascinate her prey, she would veil them with their long 
white lashes, until they melted with wistful tender- 
ness. Yet they are the kind of eyes that can express 
the cold white heat of passion, hate and revenge. 
Madame's movements are as soft and stealthy as her 
prototype, the cat. She purred with her voice, she 
purred with the touch of her velvet hand ; yet those 
velvet hands had sharp nails, and those eyes could be 
as cruel to hunt and watch, as the animaks they re- 
sembled. 

Madame was the wife of General Bogardus, who 
was a distant cousin of Carst’s ; he was some twenty 
years older than she, and she was at this time in the 
mature beauty of thirty years, when a woman, and 
beautiful at that, is most dangerous to men. The 
General, when he married her, was supposed to be 
very rich, but society which knew and winked know- 
ingly, for society will wink at things, although society 
has a certain code of honor, too, and seldom deserts 
a follower, providing he or she keeps within its de- 
mands, but fail to do so, and society will take its 
dainty foot and send him or her hurling down hill, 
just where he or she belongs. Society knew that 
the General was not rich; yet Madame was a leader 
in the most fashionable and aristocratic circles ; her 
balls and receptions, given at the old house, with 
its spacious grounds, its wings, turrets, and towers, 
were the gayest and most brilliant ; her dresses the 
richest; her gems the rarest, and her carriage and 
livery, all in the style society required. The General 
gave her his name, which was a fine old family one, 


io8 In the Market Place. 

the best in the state ; he went his way, and she went 
hers; good wine and good dinners were what the 
General cared most for. He accompanied his wife 
now and then to balls, receptions, ,the theatre and 
opera. At receptions and balls he was mostly to be 
found with the men who sneak off to the smoking- 
room, which is set apart for them in all rich and 
fashionable houses, where they drink, smoke and play 
cards, to their heart’s content. 

'‘Miss Van Court’s debut is quite a brilliant affair 
after all,” purred Madame in Carst’s ear. "I thought 
the gathering would be rather slim, so many have 
left the city.” 

Laurence never glanced with such tenderness into 
the eyes of his fiancee as he did into those of 
Madame’s and replied, stroking his nut-brown mus- 
tache: "No assemblage could help being brilliant 
that Madame Bogardus graced.” 

"How proud you should be to have the keeping of 
a young heart that has never known a love, but the 
pure and unsullied one she gives to you,” Madame’s 
eyes were never more luring, as she whispered this in 
Carst’s ear and placed her arm in his and pretended 
to take no notice of her mouse. (Cats never pretend 
to watch their prey.) 

The Lawrie family all received special invitations, 
but none came but Mary, Nelson and Gartha. Car- 
rie’s heart gave a great bound when she saw Nelson 
enter the drawing-room with the two girls leaning 
on his arm. The Judge received them with marked 
courtesy, and Mrs. Van Court was gracious and con- 


Society at the Van Courts. 109 

descending ; yet she had a sort of vague wonder how 
that really beautiful girl, Gartha, came to live with 
those very peculiar people. And the plain looking 
one she thought must be Mary Lawrie ; well, really, 
she had also an attraction of her own, which she 
could not account for, excepting on the ground that 
she was so very odd looking. Mary wore a pale blue 
silk, her brown hair combed back in plain bands, her 
eye glasses resting on the tip of her slightly project- 
ing nose. Gartha's robe was of some soft clinging, 
shimmering, satiny stuff, the color a delicate peach 
bloom, like the tinge on her cheek. A bunch of vio- 
lets nestled at the throat of the high fitting bodice, 
and her whole ensemble was that of a symphony of 
blending tints and hues. Her quiet, distingue ap- 
pearance attracted all eyes to her, and society asked 
who that beautiful and queenly looking girl was. But 
when society learned that her place in life was as yet 
an obscure one, society shrugged its shoulder and 
went on with its dancing. 

Often during the evening Carrie found herself com- 
paring Nelson Lawrie and Carst, as she saw them 
several times standing side by side. She never 
dreamed that every movement she made was watched, 
that the blood which mounted to her cheek, the 
something in her large lustrous eyes, which told of 
her delight when they sought those of Nelson’s, a 
delight that no girl can hide, and comes from the 
very fact that she is a girl, with nothing to conceal ; 
was all marked down in Madame Bogardus’ mental 
note book. 


no 


In the Market Place. 


Still Madame smarts under the admiring glances 
Carst gives the tall beauty, who came with the Law- 
ries, she already hates the tall beauty ; Gartha’s clear 
eyes gaze too straight into hers, their light is too 
pure, it makes her yellow orbs contract. However, 
Madame Bogardus is perfect mistress of herself, she 
is a woman of the world, from the top of her yellow 
crowned head, to the toe of her white satin slipper. 
So far as the world's tactics and intrigues are con- 
cerned, she is equal to a De Pompadour, for like her, 
she, too, has a kingdom to lose, a kingdom that must 
be kept propped up by the best of generalship. 
Madame is also interested in that fine young man, 
an artist, she hears. ‘'Dear me," she murmurs to 
herself, “how came he here? In these days one sel- 
dom meets artists in the great moneyed circles of 
society in America ; they have no time for art, or 
artists, science or scientists, literature or litterateurs, 
or clever people in general." 

But Judge Van Court was not of the nouveau- 
riche; he belonged to the old regime. Yes, Madame 
admires all such fine, handsome young fellows, espe- 
cially if they have anything out of the common about 
them. She will make herself pleasing to him, so she 
will have a better opportunity to watch her mouse. 
My dear Madame, you may use all your wiles to fas- 
cinate that fine young fellow, but it will avail you 
nothing; Nelson would like to paint your hair, your 
neck, your soft swelling bosom and your magnificent 
arms, but here in this blaze of light, they are de- 
cidedly too bare to please him. Still Madame is a 


Ill 


Society at the Van Courts. 

general in that respect also, she can stand any amount 
of shot and shell, from the bold eyes of the men about 
her. 

‘‘My dear Clara, how well and bright you are look- 
ing,’’ said little Mrs. Topping, who had just entered. 
Little Topping’s reddish hair was powdered with gold 
dust, her sallow cheeks had just the faintest touch of 
carmine. She had changed her mourning for the 
occasion ; she had worn it over a year and a half, and 
felt that she had done strict justice to the memory 
of Felix. This was the coming out in society of her 
friend’s daughter, she must go, and of course she 
could not wear black, but a robe of rich mauve satin, 
covered with white crape, which fell in loose folds 
from the neck, where it was gathered in like an in- 
fant’s waist, to the floor. The short baby sleeves 
were looped up on the shoulders with a jewel, resting 
on a lily, we presume to represent a dewdrop ; jewels 
sparkled on her neck and arms. 

“Really, Clara, you look ten years younger to- 
night. I am so pleased you picked yourself up and 
came down, this will do you good, put new life into 
your bones ; there is nothing like a little excitement 
once in a while, to lift one out of one’s self. Now a 
gathering like this, how inspiring it is, to be sure.” 

Little Topping waved her fan, and snapped her 
small reddish brown eyes at the ceiling. “I knew you 
would rouse yourself, for the Judge’s sake, anyway,” 
she went on, “you’re not so much to be pitied after all, 
Clara, if you are weak ; he is so strong and you have 
him to lean on; yes, you have, Clara, his love and 


I 12 


In the Market Place. 


care. When I see the Judge, he reminds me of my 
own dear husband, who was snatched away in his 
prime, and who in all the years of our wedded life, 
never spoke a harsher word to me than, ^My dear, 
precious Jane.' So you see, Clara, you have much 
to be thankful for if you are weak." Little Topping 
did not observe the twitching of Clara's eye-lids, or 
the continual tapping of her fan against the arm of 
her chair, as she rattled on like a chirping sparrow. 

‘T'm so pleased to see Clara down stairs," she said, 
turning to the Judge, and laying her tiny gloved hand 
caressingly on his coat sleeve, while she gazed up in 
his face, with a smile, she thought bewitching, 
whether the Judge thought so or not, must be left 
to the reader to conjecture. I do know this it dis- 
played a full set of false teeth. ‘'You must be very 
proud of your daughter, my dear Judge, she grows 
more lovely every day, she will be all the rage at the 
Springs; she will be a new sensation, a bright and 
joyous thing, that will break all the gentlemen's 
hearts. She will now begin to taste the pleasures of 
society. Is it not apparent to you that our people 
of the upper class have since our more frequent con- 
tact with the Europeans, become more cultivated; 
shaken off the provincial, as it were. I make it a 
rule, my dear Judge, to go abroad every year or two 
at least ; you know my weakness for pretty things. I 
am such a lover of the beautiful, and especially of the 
fine arts. Now, let me whisper something in your 
ear, my dear Judge," the Judge's ear was consider- 
able distance from Mrs. Topping's, but the Judge 


Society at the Van Courts. 113 

always courteous to the fair sex, bent down so that 
her lips touched the tips of his ear, and they informed 
him, in a low whisper, that she had brought the 
beautiful costume she wore from Paris. ''And now, 
my dear Judge, leaving Carrie’s out, don’t you think 
it the loveliest, most original, and artistic costume 
worn here tonight?” Topping’s eyes snapped and 
danced as she gave a quick jerky motion to her fan. 

"My dear madame, I have no experience in regard 
to ladies’ dresses. I can only judge from the effect, 
and I must say the effect is charming, and let me add 
that it makes you look younger by twenty years,” 
said the Judge, who was not without the masculine 
weakness of supposing that to tell a woman who is 
a widow of uncertain age, that she looks ten or 
twenty years younger than she really is, is the highest 
compliment a man can pay her. 

The band had ceased playing in the dancing tent, 
many of the guests were promenading the walks, 
others were seated under the great oaks, and some 
had been attracted to the library by the sound of the 
piano. The Judge had persuaded Mary to play a 
symphony. Carrie stands by her side, she is to sing 
an aria. Nelson stood to the left of his sister, and 
Gartha had seated herself near a window. Carst 
leaned against an open door, which led out to the 
hall, from where he stood he could see every move- 
ment of Carrie and Nelson. Madame had dropped a 
small grain or two of her poison of jealousy and sus- 
picion in his ear; the little seed was hardly per- 
ceived by him at first; yet it had taken root. The 
8 


In the Market Place. 


114 

soil upon which it fell was congenial, and it will 
spread and grow as all bad seeds do. Carst did not 
love Carrie Van Court, he did not love anything but 
himself, and his vices. But Carrie was his fiancee, 
his wife to be, and it was in every sense gratifying 
to his ambition, and no other man should snatch her 
from him. There was no banging or thrumming in 
Mary’s playing, as the long slim fingers swept over 
the keys, and touched each vibrating note, making 
exquisite harmony. When she finished there was 
much applause and a desire to have her repeat it, 
but Mary, with a pale face, shook her head, and 
began the accompaniment to Carrie’s aria from 
Norma. And never in the recollection of Mary, Gar- 
tha and Nelson, and of all who ever heard her voice 
before, did she sing as she did on this night. With 
what deep, pathetic strains, she poured out all the 
pent-up passion of that first sweet love of her heart, 
in that famous love song, ‘‘Hear Me, Norma.” Up, 
up, clear as a bell, floated the silvery trills, higher, 
higher, they resounded through the air, and came 
echoing back in the whispering of the forest trees. 
It was to Nelson, who alone understood it, an appeal 
for pity. 

“How happy I am to meet you. Miss Lawrie,” said 
Topping, giving the tips of her gloved fingers to 
Mary. “The piece you just now played, ah, how in- 
spiring it was, to be sure ; so finely executed, so much 
feeling, really delightful. And Carrie, I have never 
heard her sing so well as she did to-night. You ought 
to be very proud of your pupil ; do you know I really 


Society at the Van Courts. 115 

envy Carrie ; I consider her so fortunate, to be thrown 
while still so young, in the society of such dear, de- 
lightful people, such as musicians and artists.’’ Here 
she snapped her eyes at Nelson, who stood by his 
sister’s chair. ''If I had Carrie’s opportunities when 
I was her age, how much more lofty and soaring my 
life would have been ; it would have lifted me out of 
the commonplace and trivial things of our every- 
day existence, and made my soul rejoice in the at- 
mosphere of culture. But you know, my dear Miss 
Lawrie, it has only been in the last few years that 
girls thought it necessary to play like professionals. 
Ah,” she continued, turning to Nelson, with a toss of 
her head and a snap of her little eyes, "before I spent 
so much time abroad, I was just like most of the 
general run of women, of my place and position. 
You know, dear, there is so little to be seen in this 
country that is really artistic. When I was in Paris, 
and at Rome last, I spent most of my time in visiting 
the studios of the celebrated artists. I would spend 
hours every day with them. Do tell me, Mr. Lawrie,” 
and the small white gloved hand was laid softly on his 
arm, "didn’t you draw great inspiration from the 
paintings you saw in Europe? You returned home 
with your mind full of their beauties, and of course 
with aspirations to rival Le — Le — onard ; what is that 
great master’s name?” 

"Leonardo da Vinci, I think, must be the artist 
you refer to,” said Nelson, bowing with a smile, yet 
writhing all over to get away. 

"Oh, yes, to rival that great Master?” 


In the Market Place. 


1 16 

''Madame/’ replied Nelson, bored beyond endur- 
ance, "an artist can always draw inspiration from na- 
ture, and he has that continually before him, and 
around him, in some shape or other.” 

"Dear, I am very thirsty, let us go into the air,” 
and she placed her arm in his, and marched him off to 
the refreshment tent. 

Mary held her fan to her face to hide her smiles, 
and it was evident from the twinkle under the droop- 
ing lashes that Topping’s gush afforded her no little 
amusement. 

"The horrid thing!” cried Carrie, stamping her 
foot on the floor, "she has carried Nelson off and 
will stick to him like a leech all evening. I shouldn’t 
mind,” she whispered to Mary, "if she gave him a 
commission to paint her a thousand dollar painting; 
but she won’t, she hasn’t a decent painting in her 
house, it is filled with the tawdriest, cheapest stuff 
imaginable. Our house is bare enough, the dear 
knows, but the few pictures we have possess the 
merit of not pretending to be anything but what they 
are. I do hope Nelson will soon get rid of her,” and 
Carrie patted the floor vigorously with her white satin 
slipper. 

"He will, I assure you, and that very soon, in a way 
that will not offend,” returned Mary, who had per- 
fect confidence in her brother’s tact. 

The band struck up a waltz which brought the 
guests to the dancing tent, Carrie floated away with 
Carst, Madame for the last hour had been coquetting 
in her soft purring way with an influential politician. 


Society at the Van Courts. 117 

Madame would flirt, she could no more live without 
admiration than she could without her cup of black 
coffee and burnt brandy, that her maid brought her 
every morning before rising. Once or twice Madame 
while engaged in this little pastime of hers caught the 
eye of Carst, he was standing not far from where she 
was seated. His face, as he turned it now and then 
away from the gentleman he was conversing with, 
was flushed, perhaps from too much wine, but his 
glance, as he directed it upon her, had a steel-like fire, 
that boded no good to Madame. She winced under 
it, these glances were not rare lately; yet she knew 
the man, and his weak points thoroughly, knew her 
own power over him, how much at this time he was 
her slave, and how easily she could appease him in 
his jealousy. 

‘‘Don’t forget yourself, dear,” she would say, with 
a pressure of her white velvety hand, as she held his, 
“don’t be silly, Laurence, I am working for you, you 
shall go to Congress when your last year in the Legis- 
lature is up ; then it v/ill not be long until you are in 
the United States Senate.” 

The music ceased in the dancing tent. Carrie ex- 
cused herself, on the plea that her mother had gone 
to her room, and she must go and see if all were well 
with her. On her way to the house, she met Char- 
lotte, her mother’s colored maid, who informed her 
that her “Mistiss was all safe, tucked up in bed. An’ 
fo’ honey to go an’ ’joy hersef all she could.” 

As Carrie walked towards the back porch, she met 
Nelson. “I am so glad you so soon got rid of Top- 


ii8 


In the Market Place. 


ping,” she said, slipping her arm in his, and they 
strolled down among the trees to the lower part of 
the grove, which was nearly a quarter of a mile from 
the house. Nelson wound a light shawl she had 
brought with her about her shoulders. She was 
glad to escape from the crowd, glad to be alone 
with him, for never since the first vague impres- 
sion stole over her of her love for him, did she 
feel its strength as she did on this night. All through 
the evening she found herself comparing the two men, 
and once as they stood side by side, one her lover, 
the other her betrothed, what a difference, she 
thought. What a contrast in the two men! Nelson, 
tall and erect with a manly bearing, his fine head, with 
its sweep of dark brown hair, the large gray-blue eyes, 
deep and penetrating, yet with an expression at times 
as soft as a dream. He looked upon the gay assem- 
blage, and studied it for his pencil, that he might 
better portray on canvas the graceful, moving forms 
of men and women, that which gives glow to the 
cheek and light to the eyes ; the mirror through which 
we get a glimpse of the heart that beats and throbs 
with human emotions. All making a combination of 
life, soul and spirit, the incomprehensible masterpiece 
of the Creator. 

Carrie and Nelson had wandered down as far as the 
small gate, that opened to the road at the end of the 
grove, where they passed out, and soon found them- 
selves in the path which led to the river. They strayed 
on, forgetful of all else but each other; they were 
alone with the silence of the night around them ; she 


II9 


Society at the Van Courts. 

was his, all his for a little while at least. On the mor- 
row she would be gone, gone from him forever. He 
had never seen her look so beautiful, so radiant, as 
she did in the midst of the evening's splendor, in all 
the light, warmth, color and music. It made his love 
for her still more hopeless of attainment, and at every 
step he felt himself going to break out into a frenzy 
of passionate pleading, to leave all and fly with him ; 
but a face would rise before him, with its clear eyes 
gazing into his, a sweet, womanly face, whose owner 
in the same pathway, a few evenings before, had 
begged him to be strong, and not to let his love for 
Carrie master him, to commit any rash act ; but turn 
to his work for consolation. 

‘'When do you leave for the Springs?" he asked, 
trying hard to control the trembling of his deep, bary- 
tone voice. 

“As soon as mamma has rested sufficiently to 
leave," she answered, drawing closer to him. “We 
did intend to go in the morning, but papa thinks the 
excitement of to-night will unfit her for the journey 
for at least a few days." 

They had turned their steps homeward, and were 
emerging from the path into the grove again, when 
Nelson stopped. “Tell me," he said, standing a little 
apart from her, while his eyes gazed steadily into hers, 
as if they would search her soul, “do you intend to 
marry Laurence Carst ?" 

She hesitated a moment. “I — I — ," and the short 
upper lip was drawn down firmly over the shut teeth, 
“I — do," but the words were scarcely audible; then, 


120 


In the Market Place. 


after a moment’s pause, she became more softened, 
and added: “I see no way out of it, dear Nelson, 
unless you can plead with papa to look on our union 
favorably. But I know him so well, he will never 
consent to our marriage. He has set his heart upon 
my being Laurence Carst’s wife ; he thinks he sees in 
him great things in the future, besides my father 
always held a tender regard for his mother, all 
through her life, until she died. I do not love him ; 
I do not even admire him. I told my father so, but 
he will not listen ; he thinks it but a girlish whim. I 
must bid you farewell to-night. Nelson dear, farewell, 
farewell, my love, my beloved, farewell.” She flung 
her white arms, gleaming with jewels about his neck, 
and laid her soft cheek against his. He kissed her 
again and again, on mouth and brow. ‘‘Farewell, 
farewell,” she cried, tearing herself from his embrace. 

“Stay, Carrie, stay,” he begged, taking hold of both 
her hands. “If you love me, if you value your own 
happiness and mine, give up this hateful marriage, 
throw off this golden yoke, and trust yourself to me. 
I have no wealth to offer you, but I have youth, 
strength and manhood ; I promise my love will shield, 
protect and cherish you, until my dying day. Yes, 
Carrie, this hand will ever be ready to ward off the 
rude and disagreeable part of life ; no thorn will grow 
upon your path, but I shall pluck them up from the 
roots ; with your love as an incentive to urge me on, 
my genius will win me fame and riches, and a name 
you will be far prouder of than Laurence Carst’s.” 

“Oh, Nelson, do not drive me mad; there is no sac- 


I2I 


Society at the Van Courts. 

rifice I would not make for you, if left to my own 
will, but there is mamma and papa, and my duty to- 
wards them. Dear Nelson, while my road now leads 
away from you, still something tells me to hope that 
the future may be ours; hope, dear Nelson, hope for 
this.’' 

Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders, and she 
stood with her head thrown back, the fillet of gems 
that clasped her brow glistened like stars against the 
purple black of her hair ; her bare arms were raised, 
the large dark eyes burned like coals of fire ; the broad 
heavens with iis bright planets shone above them ; all 
was silent about them, save the song of the katy-dids 
and the gentle soughing of the trees which whispered 
to her unheeded better things. 

‘'Farewell, farewell. Nelson, my love,” she cried, 
wringing her hands in the air. He stretched out his 
arms to take her again to his breast, but she was 
gone, and he stood alone watching her white draped 
figure glide through the trees. 


CHAPTER IX. 


madame: bogardus meditates. 

After the ball, Madame Bogardus sat in her satin- 
hung boudoir, meditating on things to be, and not to 
be. The General had gone to bed, or rather, he had 
been put to bed, — ^this putting to bed had become 
chronic with the General. Madame had not yet rang 
for her maid, she would dispense with her maid to- 
night. Madame’s yellow orbs are not so soft and 
melting as an hour ago, when she leaned on the arm 
of Carst, resplendent in her rubies, shimmering satin 
and lace. Oh, no, they glare and flach now, with a 
horrid white light ; and her velvety hands, how they 
clutch at the costly lace of her rich robe! ‘‘Bah, 
what a loveless marriage it will be.’’ Madame does 
not purr this, but rather hisses it from between her 
pearls, as she rises and goes to the mirror, and stands 
before it. She takes the rubies from her bosom and 
hair, unfastens its coils, and lets it fall down her neck 
in a shining mass, then rolls it up again in a loose 
knot at the back of her neck, crosses the floor, throws 
herself into a chair, and continues to meditate. “Mar- 
riage convenience, we practice but little in this coun- 
try ; well, I cannot prevent it, it suits his purpose and 
so long as it does, I rnust make it suit mine. But let 
122 


Madame Bogardus Meditates. 123 

him dare draw the reins after the ceremony, and I 
shall make him feel my power. He does not love her, 
she is just young enough and good enough to be de- 
testable ; after she and Carst are married, I shall work 
to bring her and that fine young fellow together. Bah, 
didn’t I see him and her steal ofif together to-night, 
so much in my favor.” 

How Madame’s yellow orbs glare, and the white 
hands work as if they would like to tear at the poor 
mouse’s throat. Madame rises and rings for her 
maid, she has changed her mind, the packing of her 
trunks must be attended to, she will also leave for the 
Springs in a few days. 


CHAPTER X. 


JUDGE) VAN COURT VE:rSUS NE)TS0N UAWRIE) 

The) next morning, when the Lawrie family met at 
breakfast, there was none of the light bantering which 
the family so delighted in, and which Mary anticipated 
this morning with her brother and Gartha. When 
Nelson made his appearance in the dining-room he 
was not in his usual working dress, but the reverse ; 
his toilet showing that he had taken the most scru- 
pulous pains with it. He looked very pale, and dark 
circles hollowed his eyes ; he had not spent in rest the 
few remaining hours which were left for sleep, when 
he left the Van Courts, but rather in a fierce battle 
for mastery over his love, which had taken such a 
hold on him during the last two or three months. He 
made no comments on the Van Court reception, but 
drank his coffee without a word. Mary and Gartha, 
guessing his trouble, showed their sympathy in 
silence. 

Peter kept up a great query in his own mind; he 
wondered what in the ‘'etarnab’ had happened, after 
all the fuss and hubbub, the young folks had made in 
preparing for Carrie’s party; even Susan got a little 
'duney” on the subject and acted more like a woman 
of thirty than one nearing the sixties. And now on 
124 


Judge Van Court vs. Nelson Lawrie. 125 

this morning when he expected to hear all about how 
the thing came off, and about the swell people that 
were there, the whole three of them were struck ap- 
parently dumb. 

‘'Wal, jist so, thar was no accounting for the whims 
of young folks.’' These were Peter's thoughts, but 
he did not venture to express them, for Peter did 
like a little harmless gossip, especially when it came 
seasoned and spiced in an original way, which it was 
sure to from the girls and Nelson. 

‘'The coffee isn't so clear this morning, Nelson, 
dear. I fear a few grounds have gotten into your 
cup," said Mrs. Lawrie, looking at her son and wish- 
ing he would say something. 

“It was never better, mother, and went just to the 
spot, I feel quite refreshed after it," he replied, rising 
and leaving the table and the dining-room. 

In less than a quarter of an hour Nelson Lawrie 
had rung the bell at the front door of the Van Court 
mansion. It was answered by Frank, the house stew- 
ard. “Walk in, sah, de Jedge hab jes finished his 
breakfast, an' is in de library, readin' de monin^ papa, 
walk in, sah." And Frank, with all the politeness of a 
French Chevalier, ushered Nelson into the library. 
The Judge, who was seated near one of the richly 
draped windows, reading, looked up and greeted him 
cordially, and asked him to be seated. Nelson did not 
take the proffered chair, but stepped a few paces for- 
ward with hat in hand, and stood near a marble- 
topped center table. 

“It is somewhat early in the morning to call," he 


126 


In the Market Place. 


began, giving a slight twist to his mustache, ^'but not 
knowing the exact time you left home for your office, 
I thought I would make sure to find you. And as I 
have every reason to believe my errand is a hopeless 
one, I think the quicker I make it known, the better 
for us both,’’ said Nelson, looking straight at the 
Judge. 

“What in thunder is the fellow trying to come at?” 
thought the Judge to himself, as he laid the news- 
paper across his lap, his bright black eyes snapping 
as he returned Nelson’s gaze. 

“My errand,” continued Nelson, “is to inform you 
that I love your daughter, and have come to ask you 
for her hand, and your consent to our marriage.” 

“To ask for the hand of my daughter in marriage; 
what do you mean, are you mad, sir?” said the Judge, 
rising from his seat ; he let the newspaper drop from 
his hand, while his eyes flashed with surprise and in- 
dignation. The Judge, treating a young man like 
Nelson Lawrie with courtesy and consideration was 
an entirely different matter from giving him his only 
daughter in marriage. “Has my daughter any knowl- 
edge of this?” he asked, beginning to pace up and 
down the library floor; then stopping his pace, he 
stood beside the mantelpiece. 

“She has,” flashed back Nelson’s gray blue eyes, as 
he stood erect, but somewhat pale. 

“Am I to understand that you and yours have 
taken advantage of my child’s youth and innocence 
of the world, in going to and from your house for 
music lessons ?” 


Judge Van Court vs. Nelson Lawne. 127 

sister has been zealous in her duty towards 
Miss Van Court, and in her coming to and going from 
our home, my mother has ever shown her the kindest 
attention and affection. She liked to come to our 
home, and she found it both pleasant and instructive ; 
and the result is we are in love with each other.’’ 

‘'Are you aware, sir,” said the Judge, bringing all 
his dignity and imperiousness to bear upon Nelson, 
“that my daughter’s hand is already promised to a 
gentleman, her equal in family, wealth and social posi- 
tion ; besides a representative of his state in the Leg- 
islature ; are you aware of that, sir?” 

Nelson’s coolness matched the Judge’s dignity; 
there was something of his mother in him, as he re- 
plied: “I am aware that you have promised Miss 
Van Court’s hand to Laurence Carst, and that he is 
rich, and that is everything, even to those who pre- 
tend to look upon family and blood as all important, 
and consider mere money vulgar. Miss Van Court 
has never been consulted in regard to her affection 
for her cousin, nor has she ever told you, her father, 
she loved him.” 

This exasperated the Judge. “You are imperti- 
ment, sir,” he cried, drawing down his upper lip, which 
gave his mouth an expression of hardness ; “yes, sir, 
you are, I repeat, impertinent. Who are you, and 
what are you, to have the presumption to come here 
and propose for the hand of my daughter?” 

Nelson never moved from the position he had taken 
near the table when he first entered the library, but 
at the last words of the Judge there passed over his 


128 


In the Market Place. 


face a deep burning flush, that dyed his cheek and 
neck scarlet, leaving it after it faded away paler than 
before. 

‘'I am a man, and have the same claim to be con- 
sidered a gentleman that any of my countrymen have ; 
we have different ideas as to what constitutes a gen- 
tleman, what the world accepts as a gentleman is an- 
other thing. The word has many definitions, every 
nation having its own code of ethics, in regard to it. 
Still there is but one definition for the true man and 
gentleman, and I will leave that to you. And as to 
my calling it is that of an artist. 

“If you think that a poor, unknown young man like 
you, a mere artist, is a fit suitor for the only daughter 
and heiress of Howard William Van Court, you are 
most damnably mistaken, sir,’’ cried the Judge, com- 
mencing to stride up and down the floor again, almost 
beside himself with anger, at Nelson’s coolness, but 
taking it for downright insolence. 

“I prefer being an artist to being rich and an un- 
principled politician,” said Nelson. 

“Damn politics, I hate politics myself, but there is 
a great stretch between a mere politician and a man 
who represents his country in the United States 
Senate, a statesman, sir.” 

“Artists have played at being statesmen, but states- 
men cannot play at being artists. Cardinals, Popes 
and Kings, have been known to uncover in the pres- 
ence of artists, and their work ; but there is no record 
where they have done so in the presence of statesmen. 
I see that my mission is a hopeless one, that being a 


Judge Van Court vs. Nelson Lawrie. 129 

gentleman, with youth, talent and strong manhood, 
the devotion of a life, which I offer to your daughter 
whom I love with all my soul, counts for nothing; 
good morning, sir/’ 

'‘Stay a moment,” commanded the Judge, as Nel- 
son turned to leave. "I shall forbid my daughter 
going to your house, and from this day, seeing or 
speaking to any of its inmates, on the penalty of 
disinheritance; and if she disobeys me I shall make 
Laurence Carst my heir.” 

"Good morning, sir,” said Nelson, leaving the room, 
and opening the hall door, he ran down the steps, 
glad to get into the fresh air. But in recalling the 
scene of that morning in after years, he never knew 
how he did get out of the house, nor to his own home. 

"I call that fellow the essence of impudence, dovm- 
right insolence,” said the Judge to himself, as he 
heard the hall door shut after Nelson. "Lord, sir, 
every clod-hopper considers himself a gentleman in 
these days ; every trade is a profession, and every 
mechanic is an artist. That is the fault of the times, 
the hurrying, hurrying times ; the pushing, elbowing, 
vulgar mob ; the tendency to T am as good as you, 
sir,’ ” and the Judge stopped in his strides up and 
down the floor, before the bell and gave it a quick, 
vigorous pull, that brought Frank. "Yes, sah,” said 
Frank, as he put his head half-way in the door. "Has 
Miss Carrie breakfasted yet?” asked the Judge. 

"She habn’t quite finished yet, sah.” 

"Tell your young mistress her father wishes to see 
her in the library, when she has breakfasted/’ 

9 


130 


In the Market Place. 


‘'Yes, sah,’’ answered the black head, as it disap- 
peared. 

We fear the fault with the Judge, as well as with a 
good many others, is that he did not always recognize 
the gentleman when he met him. 

In a few moments Carrie entered the library; her 
thin white morning robe added interest to her face, 
which the pain at parting with her lover the night be- 
fore, and the loss of sleep, which followed, had 
stripped of some of its rich olive bloom, leaving it 
pale and worn. 

“Good morning, papa,’' she said, advancing to the 
middle of the floor. 

“Stand there,” said her father, with a sternness of 
manner she had never before seen him evince towards 
her, “has that impertinent fellow Lawrie been making 
love to you?” 

“Oh, papa,” pleaded Carrie, folding her hands be- 
fore her, her great soft eyes resting on her father’s 
face with an imploring gaze, “Nelson Lawrie would 
not nor tould not be impertinent to you. He has the 
best of manners, and if he were not in love with me, 
you would think him a splendid young gentleman.” 

“Fiddle, dee, dee,” cried the Judge, or rather sang 
it, with a sort of whistle, “then this fellow has been 
making love to you. Has he asked you to be his 
wife?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you promised to marry him?” 

“Not without your consent; that is what brought 
him h^r^ this morning, to obtain it,” she answered, 


Judge Van Court vs. Nelson Lawrie. 13 1 

the film gathering in her eyes and almost blinding 
her. 

daughter/’ the Judge began, with the same 
hardening of the mouth, as when speaking to Nelson, 
forbid you having anything further to say to this 
young Lawrie; I forbid you going to his house, or 
having any communication with his family ; from now' 
until after your marriage with your cousin. If you 
are undutiful and throw yourself away on a man who 
can hardly give you bread to eat ; if you disregard my 
plans, the hopes and ambitions I have had for your 
future, so that you may fill a place of the highest dis- 
tinction in the world where you belong, as my daugh- 
ter and heiress. If you want to throw these aside and 
marry this Lawrie, this nobody ; if you care nothing 
for a father’s love and affection,” the Judge’s lip quiv- 
ered as he looked at Carrie, who was standing with 
her hands locked before her, her face white as her 
dress, her large eyes moist with tears that were ap- 
pealing to him for pity, ^‘I shall disown you, never 
allow your mother to see or speak to you, and will 
make Laurence Carst my heir.” 

Carrie turned her back and stepped a few paces to 
the door; always the image of her father, but what 
was masculine in him, had been moulded to feminine 
softness in her ; she turned around again and took a 
pace or two towards him. All the moisture had left 
her eyes, they were dry and very bright, and the 
upper lip, so characteristic of the parent, was drawn 
firmly down over the slightly projecting teeth. ‘Tapa, 
your love is everything to me,’’ she said^ layitig her 


In the Market Place. 


132 

hand in her father’s. “I owe you implicit obedience ; 
I will marry Laurence Carst.” She turned quickly 
from him and left the library. 

‘‘She is her father’s daughter, every inch of her,” 
murmured the Judge to himself, as he shook his head, 
and folded his arms behind his back and renewed his 
pacing up and down the floor. “She is too sensible to 
throw herself away on that fellow Lawrie. Pooh ! 
it’s only a girlish fancy that will soon wear away. 
Bah ! when she came to taste of poverty, love would 
soon fly out the window. There is nothing that will 
kill a romantic love like poverty. Ah me, we have all 
had our romance in youth,” he said aloud, his 
thoughts carrying him back to the time when he 
loved his cousin, Laurence Carst’s mother. She was 
engaged to the rich planter Carst, when he first met 
her; he had just returned from college and a two 
years’ voyage in Europe and fell deeply in love with 
her. The report was that she returned his love, but 
her marriage was near at hand, and that ended the 
matter. ♦ 

Oh, yes, my de^f Judge, we have all had our ro- 
mance, the man or woman who has passed his or her 
youth, without experiencing that first early passion, 
has lost the sweetest, dearest and most joyous part 
of life. It softens the hard places of our future, and 
its memory is often the healing balm to the sorrow 
which is sure to come to all in later years. The Judge 
stopped his pacing, looked at his watch, then went 
into the hall, took his hat and cane from the hall rack, 
left the house and stepped into his carriage that was 


Judge Van Court vs. Nelson Lawrie. 133 

waiting at the door, and was driven to the city and to 
court. A few days after his interview with Nelson 
Lawrie, the morning papers announced that Judge 
Van Court, wife and daughter, accompanied by the 
Honorable Laurence Carst, and Madame and General 
Bogardus, had left the city for the White Sulphur 
Springs. 


CHAPTER XL 


To PEN ONE WORD THAT WOUED GIVE THEE PAIN, 
WOULD BE LIKE PRICKING THY WOUNDS AERESH. 

It was one of those fearfully hot days, that come 
thick and fast upon us when July arrives upon her 
fiery steed, and June, beautiful June, vanishes for an- 
other year. Dry, hot, dusty days, that scorch the 
grass into brownish stubbles, sap the moisture from 
the trees, flowers and fruit ; with no respite save the 
slight south breeze which rises when the sun goes to 
sleep. 

Nelson was making preparations to go abroad, 
Mrs. Lawrie was calm and silent ; while she all along 
had an inkling that an affection existed between Car- 
rie and her son, she thought it but a slight attachment 
which young people are very apt to form for each 
other when thrown much together, and could easily 
be broken off at will. “They should have known bet- 
ter, she thought to herself, since the whole truth had 
come so unexpectedly to her. Carrie, leaving with- 
out a word, without even running over to say good- 
by to Mary and Gartha. Nelson’s errand to the Van 
Courts the morning after the reception, his haggard 
look; his shutting himself up in his studio for days, 
afterwards, Then his corning to her and telling her 
134 


To Pen One Word. 


^35 

of his desire to go to Europe to travel for a year or 
two to study, and how thankful he would be if she 
would help him ; he had quite a little sum himself laid 
by, and had a few orders to finish, but he wanted to be 
sure of enough to carry him through before he left 
home. 

‘'Why must you go, my son?” she asked, when they 
were in the studio alone. “I stood it very well the 
first time you took the journey,” she said with a 
quiver of the lip and a tenderness in her tone, that 
but a mother can have for her only son. “I felt then 
it was my duty to send you, that your profession re- 
quired that you should study abroad. Your father 
and I are growing old, London and Paris are far 
away, and two years is a long while to be gone from 
home.” She gazed out of the window, her eyes were 
wet with tears, and her thoughts went back to the 
sons and daughters she had buried; and of late the 
pride and affection she had in her oldest son, had been 
gradually centering on Nelson. Not that she would 
acknowledge it to herself, as never was boy born like 
unto this oldest son, whom she had laid to rest six 
years before in all the promise of his young man- 
hood. 

“You must not take my going so much to heart, 
my dear, good, beautiful mother,” said Nelson, stoop- 
ing over and kissing her on the cheek. “You can get 
along very well without me, so far as being of any 
help to you. I have never been as yet but an expense. 
You have father, Mary and Gartha left to love you, 
^nd they ar^ the best company, besides you y/il! have 


In the Market Place, 


136 

your son thinking of you, and loving you all the more 
because he is far away from home. A year or two will 
not be long passing, then I shall return with my mind 
stored with fresh knowledge and new ideas ready to 
begin work again. As things are now, my dear 
mother, it is necessary to my peace of mind that I go 
away.’' 

Mary grew thinner and paler each day, the bright 
color that usually tinged her cheeks had faded from 
them. Mrs. Lawrie thought it was the heat that 
affected her naturally delicate constitution, and told 
herself that when the cool weather came she would 
regain her strength. They made her give up her 
pupils and music and take herself off to the studio, 
the ‘'Haven of Rest”; and it was a “Haven of Rest” 
to her in these hot months, in which she felt always 
so tired and weary. How she would miss Nelson, she 
thought, and the times when she would lie quietly 
with half-closed lids, watching him paint. Peter hung 
a hammock under the trees for her to rest in morn- 
ings and evenings, when she tired of the studio. Peter 
wanted to know from his wife if there couldn’t be 
money enough spared to send her to tli^ seashore, or 
some of the upper northern lakes. He informed Mary 
in a great secret that he had a little purse of his own, 
hid away, that her mother knew nothing about. It 
would give her a month or two in a quiet corner of 
Put-in Bay, if she would only consent to go. Mary 
took his old face between her two slender palms and 
kissed him on both cheeks, and said: “You dear old 
par,” in her mimicking way, ‘T am far better off at 


To Pen One Word. 


137 


home, with mother and yourself, and those who love 
me, and there can be no purer or finer air than the air 
of Tanglewood.’’ Peter had a poor way of showing 
his affection to his family, and this youngest child and 
only living daughter had always been a favorite with 
him ; there was a tender spot down deep in his heart, 
which he kept for her, which none of his other chil- 
dren had ever touched. Perhaps the reason for it was 
she was more gentle and considerate of his peculiar- 
ities, than the others had ever been. He would stand 
the little sly dabs made in a loving way at his eccen- 
tricities, with a better grace from her than from his 
wife and son. 

He told his wife one night after Nelson’s contem- 
plated journey abroad was settled, that she was hu- 
moring her son in a whim at the expense of his sis- 
ter’s health. ''Of course the money is yours ; you can 
do as you please with it, but traveling in Europe like 
a nabob don’t suit poor young men ; they should be 
satisfied with their own country.” 

"Artists are obliged to go to Europe to study, 
Peter, you know father, if Nelson has what they call 
genius, let us give him all the advantages we can,” 
replied Mrs. Lawrie, taking off her spectacles and 
laying them away in a comfortable corner of her 
work-basket. 

"No, I don’t know,” retorted Peter, very crossly 
from under the bedclothes ; he was lying with his back 
to his wife, with the sheets all gathered up about his 
neck. "As for myself, I am a plain old republican, 
an old Yankee, who hates all the fol-de-rol we hear 


In the Market Place. 


138 

in these clays, about an aristocracy, and a republican 
court at Washington. This country was never 
planned on any such principles, our constitution was 
never formed on any such basis ; our forefathers were 
good old simple republican men, men strong of pur- 
pose and firm of hand, men who had the good of 
their country at heart; and the days that followed 
were good, old, simple, republican days ; when an 
honest man was honored, no matter how hard or fur- 
rowed his hands were with toil.’’ 

‘'Father, you go on terribly when I take flights in 
the upper regions,” said Mrs. Lawrie, biting the cor- 
ners of her mouth, as she combed out her gray hair 
which was still long and abundant. 

‘T don’t tower, Susan, no, I leave that for you and 
the girls and Nelson to do over the beauties of nature, 
and high art. I mean those were the days when the 
mechanic, the artisan, the skilled workman and the 
true workman, of any sort, was respected for what 
he was as a man ; not like what he is now, with all his 
trades unions. What has he? Nothing but what a 
few men, who want the ’arth, and the heavens, too, 
choose to give him ; and if they could go down to hell 
and back, would like to run things thar. Blame me, 
but they wouldn’t find it quite so comfortable down 
thar. With this power the respect for the individual 
man has gone.” 

And Peter turned over on his back, raised himself 
and sat up in the bed. His eyes were wide open, 
ready to talk from then until morning, settling the 
affairs of the nation. 


To Pen One Word. 


139 

^Well, Peter, these things will right themselves in 
time. I don't mind so long as the poor men make a 
living for their families, what their unions are. Be- 
sides, I have heard you say that the workingman was 
a producer and that he should have his rights, and 
that capital could do nothing without labor, that labor 
was capital and capital labor. I am sure I am just 
as dependent on Arminta out there and her kind, as 
she is on me ; we are all, for that matter, father, de- 
pendent on one another," returned Mrs. Lawrie, put- 
ting out the light and nestling down beside her hus- 
band. 

''Thar it is, agin, it is just like you, Susan, unless 
you see something to tower over in poetry, music and 
high art, you don't care whether the country goes to 
tarnation or not," replied Peter, who was very much 
nettled at the way his wife's comfortable sides shook 
the bed from silent laughter. 

"Why should I worry about what don't concern 
me?" said Mrs. Lawrie, composing herself. "Things 
that I have no power to help ; I have my own family 
to look after and I have my own cares and trials, 
which I burden no one with, and try to bear them as 
patiently as possible." 

"Wal, just so, Susan, but can't you see the very 
troubles an' burdens you mention, comes from the ex- 
isting conditions in the country, that makes things 
hard for everybody. An' yit, mother, everything is 
so plentiful, everything grows in abundance, we have 
had no pestilence nor famine ; we have had war, but 
not at home; the war with Spain, from the looks of 


140 


In the Market Place. 


things, couldn't be helped, I presume, but the war in 
the Philippines is the most disgraceful thing that the 
grand old party ever committed, an' it should be 
whipped out of the temple for it. Yes, mother, God 
seems to have smiled upon the land, but the rain will 
come ; His vengeance will pour down upon us. Men 
study and invent how to make things scarce, such as 
cold storage an' the like, and they hold the fruits of 
the 'arth, until all the taste, an' all the nutriment, and 
health-giving properties are frozen out of them, and 
they are kept locked up from the people, and the pro- 
ducer can get nothing for his produce." 

'‘Well, now, Peter, lie down and go to sleep. I am 
very tired," said Mrs. Lawrie. 

"Wal, jist so, Susan," and Peter laid back on his 
pillow with a great "Och." Peter was not a socialist, 
he was not the kind of man who produces the re- 
former ; he was the very opposite, an old conservative 
New Englander. A Puritan in every sense, an Amer- 
ican and a patriot to the core of his heart ; a repub- 
lican in all that the word means, a democrat, but be- 
longing, as he himself said, to the grand old repub- 
lican party. Not as it is now, but when it was in its 
purity and simplicity and advocated thoroughly re- 
publican prinicples. 

It was after tea, Mary and Gartha were seated on 
the front porch. Mary's head leaned against the back 
of her chair, which Gartha had arranged with pillows 
and soft cushions; her feet rested on a hassock and 
her light blue muslin dress with her usual simple 
trimmings at the neck, such as a soft bit of lace, and 


To Pen One Word. 141 

a rare old cameo brooch of her mother's. Gartha was 
seated near her. I have said that Gartha was beau- 
tiful, tall and lithe, and that her features were of the 
clear cut Grecian type, but after all her beauty came 
from the inner self, from the soul, the spiritual which 
dominated her whole nature. Her glorious hair on 
this evening, it being very sultry, she wore piled high 
on top of her head, an ivory comb fastening the heavy 
coils. Her diaphanous robe of white fell about her 
feet, in deep pleatings edged with lace ; there was not 
a touch of color in the whole ensemble of her attire, 
excepting the bronze brown of her hair, the tinge on 
her cheek, and the small inexpensive fan she held in 
her hand, and which she waved to and fro. No sister 
could give more attention and affection than she did 
to the delicate girl seated at her side. To Mary, 
Gartha was the one ideal woman in the whole world. 
How congenial and happy they were in each other's 
society ; their mutual love for books and pictures and 
their appreciation of the same authors; their long 
conversations in the studio, and under the trees, were 
a constant delight to Mary. 

Carl came during the warm months, nearly every 
evening to tea ; it was he and only he, who for a mo- 
ment would bring a slight flush to Mary's cheek. He 
watched her with a heavy, aching heart, and a never- 
ceasing anxiety. 

‘‘My life, my soul !" he would cry, when walking up 
and down the floor of his studio, and the strong desire 
came upon him to have her all to himself, to possess 
her, so that he might watch over her, ‘'but it would 


14^2 


In the Market Place. 


never do, it would not be right to take her away from 
such gentle and loving care, such fond hearts, to 
walk the rough road of poverty and privation with 
me. 

The weather was too warm for her to accompany 
him on the piano, but he would often sit for an hour 
after tea, in the long summer twilight, playing for 
Gartha and herself their favorite airs. On this even- 
ing he was seated apart from them. ‘^Whisper what 
thou feelest,’’ was not whispered, but with flushed 
face, his eyes, raised to the sky, he sent it floating out 
in long thrills and variations on the soft night winds, 
that came echoing back over the house tops, through 
the locust trees, the sighing oaks and soughing pines. 

Carl had ceased playing and had laid aside his flute, 
when Nelson came up the path, and walking by his 
side, was a young man with the same stately bearing 
as the one Gartha and Nelson had met that night, 
some weeks before, when they were walking down by 
the river. As Nelson presented him to the girls, Gar- 
tha recognized him as the young man who paid her 
such marked attention at the art gallery. He was 
well known to Carl, who rose and shook the hand 
politely held out to him ; Gartha rose also and went 
into the sitting-room, to fetch some chairs. When 
she returned and had seated herself again, Arthur 
Lowell, the young professor, for it was he, drew his 
chair close to her side. 

From the shoulders of the young professor, down 
to the toe of his shining boot, there was the symmetry 


To Pen One Word. 


of the Apollo Belvedere, his head being equal in clas- 
sic grace to that Greek type of masculine perfection. 
His hair was a dark, reddish brown, and his heavy 
curling mustache covered a mouth that to the ob- 
server the lines showed a certain hardness and selfish- 
ness, where his personal interests were concerned. 
The teeth were white and regular, and indicated 
strength ; the eyes were a dark brown, large and lus- 
trous, and shaded with long brown lashes. His fore- 
head, nose and chin, seemed perfect in their clear-cut 
outlines, and their expression of refinement. As he 
leaned against the back of his chair, in a graceful atti- 
tude Gartha thought so far as the embodiment of 
physical, intellectual and manly beauty was con- 
cerned, that nowhere in the wide world was his equal 
to be found. 

‘'How came he here,’’ she thought; how came he 
into her life ? She knew he was not what her mother 
had hoped and wished she might claim as a husband. 
But she herself had caught a glimpse of such a being, 
while sitting at her mother’s feet, reading to her in 
the long winter’s evening; and again conning her 
lessons in her own room, or under the great forest 
trees of her home. He addressed her about some 
trivial thing, the heat of the weather and so forth, 
and as Gartha raised her eyes to his, she instantly 
dropped them as the thought flashed across her mind : 

‘T have met my destiny, my fate,” and the dark 
lashes, which shaded her cheek, heightened the blush 
that swept up to her neck and face. 


144 


In the Market Place. 


'‘Yes, the heat has been intense for the last two 
weeks,’' she said, looking away from him, and slowly 
fanning herself. 

He continued to address his remarks to her : 
"Every one who can get away from the City should 
leave it during the hot months. I, myself, would have 
flown to cooler quarters long ago, but we are having 
some repairs made at the Academy that required my 
attention.” 

"You are so interested in your work there that it 
absorbs all your time, at least you prefer to give all 
your time to the advancement of your school,” she 
replied, and her eyes met his again, and he observed 
that they were brighter than when they first changed 
glances, and the light that shone in them was beau- 
tiful. Her eyes were her chief charm, one could never 
tell their color; but whatever her thoughts and feel- 
ings were, were expressed in the intensity and depths 
of their hues. 

"Every man must have some vocation ; life is noth- 
ing without some fixed purpose, and whatever a 
man’s calling may be, he must, if he wishes to suc- 
ceed, give it his whole time,” he answered. "Now I 
gave up painting, after trying it for seven or eight 
years, ever since I was a boy, couldn’t succeed ; knew 
I couldn’t ; no man understood the principles of art, 
technique and the theory of light and shade better 
than I. I had them at the tip of my tongue ; no one 
could explain them to better advantage, and make 
them more clear to the student than myself; but I 


To Pen One Word. 


145 

could not apply them ; couldn’t succeed as a painter ; 
knew I couldn’t.” 

‘'Good thing you found it out, old boy,” cried Nel- 
son, with a hearty laugh from the upper end of the 
porch. “You have been saved the pain of being told 
it with every breath you draw, and you will have the 
immense satisfaction at the close of your days of not 
being one of those great artists who never succeeded.” 

“Some of the greatest painters never succeeded in 
a worldly sense,” replied Gartha, smiling and shaking 
her fan at Nelson. 

“Not in these practical times, which generally 
measure success by dollars and cents ; the world 
doesn’t ask by what means a man gains success, just 
so he attains it, that is all is necessary, my Gartha.” 

“I see you are inclined to be cynical to-night; it 
must be the heat,” said Gartha, trying to get some 
breeze out of the little toy she held in her hand, in the 
shape of a fan. 

“I am not always in sympathy with my brother, but 
this oppressive heat would try the patience of a better 
natured man than he,” said Mary, from under the 
shadow of Carl’s protecting arm, where she had 
drawn herself and her chair apart from the others. 

“Lawrie has a habit of falling into these moods,” 
responded the professor, twisting the ends of his mus- 
tache, with delicate white fingers. “He used to be 
merciless towards me ; he would tell me without a 
qualm that my portraits of men were characterless, 
with no more soul than if they were made of putty ; 
that my women were wooden women, whitewashed. 

10 


146 


In the Market Place. 


He was kind enough to inform me what my pictures 
needed, what colors to use and how to apply them, 
but I knew all that myself as well as he. It was some- 
thing like the old lady who made the whitest and 
lightest of home bread. One day her young daughter- 
in-law, who did not know how to make bread, came 
to her for the receipt ; the old lady said : ‘I make it 
so and so, and when the sponge is ready, I do so and 
so. I have my oven just so hot, when I put in the 
bread,’ and she explained the process of making and 
baking it. But when the bread was baked, it was 
dark, and no brick could be harder. ‘Why, I made it 
just as your mother told me,’ said the young wife, 
when her husband turned a scowling face at the bread. 
Oh, Lawrie used to handle me without gloves ; we 
seldom agree ; he has his way of thinking and I have 
mine. He believes in genius, I do not. I believe the 
same results can be reached by study.” 

“Alas, alas, many a genius has been stranded on 
the rock of despair, when they have missed early 
training, and have grown gray in working out their 
own problems ; while mere talent which has had the 
benefit of every advantage from early childhood up, 
have stolen their ideas and adapted them to their use, 
and gained the day, while still young,” said Carl, his 
voice made mellow by the serene influence tobacco 
has on some natures. 

“Ah, you’re all mistaken,” replied Gartha, thought- 
fully. “The genius must go through any amount of 
mechanical drudgery ; he cannot be great without it, 


To Pen One Word. 


147 


but to him comes the pleasure which is denied those 
who are merely mechanical; the inspiration to sieze 
and to hold, the poetical and spiritual, that something 
subtle, which few possess, few have the power to ex- 
press on canvas or paper. We feel it, but we do not 
always understand it; besides there is the exquisite 
pleasure of beholding the creations of one's own 
brain." 

‘'Genius is genius, and all attempts to define it are 
simply impossible, it rises above and beyond every- 
thing, and is always surprising. It is also self-denying, 
self-sacrificing; genius will live in an attic on a crust 
of bread, so as to be able to work out its thoughts, 
and its problems. It will forsake everything for the 
love of its work, that it may give to the world what its 
heart feels, its eyes and brain see. Mere talent does 
not do this, never has and never will; it looks for 
quicker results, for money, therefore uses what 
genius has thought out alone in silence, obscurity and 
poverty," said Nelson, leaving his chair and stepping 
down of? the porch, with the exclamation : “Gracious, 
isn't it hot !" 

Then Carl came out from the haze that enveloped 
him : “My life, it is a scorching night," he said, wip- 
ing the perspiration from his forehead and beginning 
to walk up and down on the gravel path, puffing and 
blowing and fanning himself so vigorously with his 
broad-brimmed hat that his nose came in for a good 
rap, with every move of it. 

“It has been one of the warmest days of the sea- 


148 


In the Market Place. 


son,” said the professor, looking as if no heat could 
penetrate that cool exterior of his. 

‘'Well, if here isn’t mother with a pitcher full of ice 
cool lemonade ; what a dear, thoughtful old mother 
you are,” said Nelson, stepping forward and taking 
the pitcher and a salver full of glasses from her hand. 

“I am not so thoughtful as you think, my son; I 
wanted a cool drink ; so while I was about it I made 
enough for all.” 

“As if you weren’t always thinking of us and our 
comfort,” came from Mary. 

“What foolish children, to try and make believe 
that none of you knew where the lemons, sugar and 
ice were kept, and welcome to help yourselves at any 
time,” replied Mrs. Lawrie, looking over her spec- 
tacles at Arthur Lowell, as if she were ready to 
mother him, and take him into the fold. Then she 
disappeared and immediately returned with a silver 
cake-basket full of delicious golden pound-cake. 

“Oh, what a sly mother you are,” said Nelson, who 
had finished helping the others, and was pouring out 
for himself a glass of the lemonade. “You remember 
how you reprimanded me this evening when I went 
for the last piece of cake in the dish. I supposed it 
the last piece I would see until baking day again.” 

“My brother’s appetite for cake is anything but 
esthetic; he had two large pieces to-night for tea, 
then wanted to buy mine. When I refused to sell, 
he went without ceremony for the last slice in the 
basket, which is anything but good manners,” said 
Mary, her quiet laugh joining in with Gartha’s low 
ripple. 


To Pen One Word. 


149 


always knew there was a good deal of the cake 
in him/’ remarked the professor, sipping his lemon- 
ade, and glancing at Mary, glad to get a sly dab at 
Nelson, whom he felt generally got the better of him 
in an encounter. 

own to being somewhat cakey, but I hope not 
of the spongy sort,” retorted Nelson, who was busily 
eating a slice, and every once in a while leaned over 
and gave his mother’s arm a gentle squeeze, as much 
as to say, how good it is. ‘‘You should see mother’s 
cupboard in the cellar,” he went on. “It has a dozen 
or more immense shelves, and on baking day, when 
the baking is finished, you should hear the trotting 
she keeps up from kitchen to cellar, and from cellar 
to kitchen, each time her arms loaded with good 
things. I never see what goes into that wonderful 
store-house ; I only know what issues from it. Then, 
after a few days, I begin to hear mother’s old song,” 
(imitating his mother), “Nelson, my son, that is the 
last of the jelly cake; that is the last of the cu^-cake. 
Nelson, my son, don’t eat so much sweets; eat more 
substantial, and that is the last of the apple and rasp- 
berry pie, and the cookies are all gone, and we shall 
have no more until Saturday again. Of course I de- 
sist, but I see no diminishing of the pies and cake. 
Oh, what a sly mother you are, and I’m sure my sister 
and Gartha conspire with you to defraud me of my 
rightful share of confections, which is necessary to 
every healthy ^system.” 

“What a big boy you are. Nelson,” said Mrs. Law- 
rie, shaking in her chair from suppressed laughter. 


150 


In the Market Place. 


^'Always a boy to you, mother,’’ he said with a sigh, 
that came in spite of his gayety. 

‘^My life, what one of us would not like to be a boy 
again,” came from Carl. He had taken his chair from 
the porch onto the gravel walk, where he sat in the 
loosest, coolest manner, sipping his lemonade. 

‘^Ye gods of all the pagan Greeks ! I have at last 
found her,” exclaimed Arthur Lowell, slapping Nel- 
son on the back, when he and Nelson had gotten far 
enough down the path not to be observed by those 
sitting on the porch. ‘‘I have been searching for her 
the last five months. It is about that long since I met 
her in the Art Gallery. She seemed so interested in 
paintings, and spoke so intelligently about them that 
I thought I might be likely to find her there any day 
at about the same hour. About three o’clock every 
afternoon I generally go to the gallery, for a half 
hour's rest and quiet, and it was about that time I 
saw her seated before one of the large paintings in the 
east room. But she never came again ; I have thought 
of her continually, until I began to feel she was some 
fancied vision that had taken shape in my brain ; or 
some one of the sculptured Diana’s or Psyche’s which 
I’m surrounded with, had clothed herself, in flesh and 
blood, and came to disturb my peace of mind. But, 
my dear fellow, I have found her,” and he threw his 
arms around Nelson’s neck, and nearly smothered 
him with a hug. 

Nelson, who never knew Arthur Lowell to conde- 
scend to anything like playfulness of manner, stood 
aghast at this outburst of affection and confidence, 


To Pen One Word. 


151 

and cried out: ''Who the deuce are you talking 
about ?” 

"Who would you suppose I was talking about V 

"It can’t be my sister Mary, for she is very plain ; 
besides she has been engaged to Carl ever since they 
have known each other,” replied Nelson, with more of 
a desire to tease his companion than a wish to be 
perverse. 

"Your sister seems like a good, amiable girl, and 
quite interesting ; but you know there is but one that 
I could possibly mean, and that is Miss Rowland, and 
I can think of no name better suited to her style of 
beauty than Gartha Rowland,” responded Arthur, 
letting go his hold on Nelson. 

There was a strange sensation passed over Nelson, 
when the professor spoke Gartha’s name ; to hear it 
mentioned with tenderness by a young man but a few 
years older than himself, one possessing the per- 
sonal attractions of Arthur Lowell, left an unaccount- 
able smart at his heart. There is a lurking selfishness 
in us all, which comes to the surface when we find 
other claimants for the favor and regard of those we 
hold dear, and in the highest esteem ; dreading to be 
shut out from their compani jnship, by some one who 
has more right to their affection and love. Not that 
Nelson was any more selfish than his kind, but he held 
Gartha to be all that was beautiful, true and noble in 
woman. She was so artless, so free from guile, and 
there was a sacredness about her, an unaccountable 
something that she carried with her; something like 
the soft breath of a Spring morning which comes 


152 


In the Market Place. 


wafting over the flower decked fields, shedding a 
sweet incense around all who came in its way. He 
knew Arthur Lowell’s narrow nature could never 
ascend to the world in which she dwelt, or could he 
appreciate the broadness, depths, or intellect of her 
mind ; the faculty of endowing all creatures with high 
attributes, and placing them in the ideal atmosphere 
which she created for herself. Nelson knew that this 
ideality would make a hero, a young god, of a man 
with the bearing, physical beauty and a certain cold 
intellect of Arthur Lowell. And he asked himself if 
anything happened to bring them together while he 
was in Europe, would it lessen her friendship for him- 
self, a friendship he now held dear. He thought, not 
so far as she was concerned, but would Arthur be 
generous enough to understand it! This was the 
smart that pricked his heart, this was what had passed 
through his mind as they neared the gate to the road. 

''Why so quiet? Have I touched a tender spot? 
You can’t expect all the good things of this life; you 
know how I envy you your capacity to paint, your 
genius ; you may call it what you please ; you have it, 
I have not,” said Arthur, as they both stopped at the 
gate to light their cigars. 

"I’m not such a lucky dog as you suppose; you 
know the old adage, 'Lucky in play, unlucky in 
love,’ ” returned Nelson with a sigh, and striking his 
third match with such vehemence that it made the 
professor feel anything but comfortable. "Not that 
the tender passion exists between Gartha and myself, 
not at all, my dear fellow ; but I consider her one of 


To Pen One Word. 


153 


those rare women, whom a man can have for a friend, 
that to breathe love to would spoil that freedom of 
intercourse, that high esteem where friendship exists 
between man and woman. But speaking of the good 
things of this world, I thought it was you who had 
more than your share of what people term the best 
of this life. A good income being laid at your feet, 
any day you choose to lead the fair lady to the altar. 
And I hear that you are adored in spite of your freez- 
ing dignity, by most of the women and lovely girls 
who attend the Academy, who are nothing if not 
artistic, who think painting can be learned, the same 
as a blacksmith shoes his horse. I thought you too 
cold-blooded to even feel a passion for any woman, 
no matter how beautiful, were it not to your interest 
in pushing you a little farther up the ladder of life.’’ 

''By George, Lawrie, you always were hard on me. 
If you had not such an off-hand way of speaking your 
mind to a fellow, and hadn’t been in times past such 
a friend, I would feel very much like using my fists 
on you,” replied Arthur, biting the ends of his mus- 
tache. am not so cold-blooded as you imagine,” 
he continued, brushing the ashes from his cigar. 
“Perhaps all this adulation you speak of feeds my 
vanity ; I don’t know how I should feel if it were taken 
from me; but one tires of it, and it’s refreshing to 
meet a woman like Miss Rowland, who instead of 
feeding a man’s conceit, and making him think what 
a splendid fellow he is, he is wondering all the while 
what kind of an impression he is making on her 
mind.” 


^54 


In the Market Place. 


‘'I see you are badly hit/’ said Nelson. 

“Not so badly hit as my vanity is somewhat stung/’ 
answered the professor, who had the bad grace of not 
being willing to acknowledge that he could forget 
himself long enough to fall in love with a beautiful 
woman. 

“I thought so,” returned Nelson, stopping in the 
middle of the street, for they had now reached the 
heart of the city. “I leave to-morrow for New York, 
and sail in a few days from there. I hope after I’m 
gone you will visit Tangle wood; you can spend a 
pleasant evening there with mother and the girls. 
Mary has been quite delicate this summer, and has 
left off her music for the present, but you will find 
Carl and his flute there most any evening you chance 
to go. He is considered one of the family.” 

“Thanks ; I shall be more than happy to avail my- 
self of the privilege to again visit your pleasant home. 
I wish I could run over with you. I would have gone 
this month if it were not for the repairs we are having 
made at the Academy ; all speed and au bon voyage. 
When you return the boys will howl with rage ; their 
hair bristle on ends with envy; and their eyes turn 
sage green with jealousy at the work you will turn 
out,” said Arthur Lowell, giving his hand to Nelson. 

“You may be sure I shall reserve my best efforts 
for my paintings,” was Nelson’s answer, as he took 
the hand of Arthur Lowell, and they separated. 

Nelson was on his way home, walking leisurely up 
one of the public streets when he happened to hear 
the strains of music in one of the down town summer 


To Pen One Word. 155 

gardens. The night was unusually warm, as we 
know, and the swelling notes of the orchestra were 
sweet to his ear. Thinking it would be his last night 
in his own city for some time, he thought he would 
drop in for a few minutes. He stopped at the gate, 
paid his twenty-five cents admission fee and went in. 
It was crowded with people, more of the half world, 
and many of the working class that are glad to get 
away from the stifling air of their small, narrow 
rooms, and breathe the fresh air of an open space, 
and sit under the trees, if they are stunted and sickly. 
He took a seat in a shady corner where he had a 
good view of the stage and the crowd. At a small 
table near by sat a group of pretty servant girls with 
their escorts ; to his left at a large table, was seated 
a conspicuous party of six persons. One was a young 
girl whose face particularly attracted his attention. 
She did not look to be more than sixteen or seven- 
teen years of age ; the style of her dress and beauty 
of her face would have arrested the eye of any one 
loving the picturesque. Her hair was a dark, chest- 
nut brown, rolled back from her forehead, with fluffy 
curls almost touching her penciled brows ; its luxu- 
riance gathered into one long braid at the back of 
the neck which fell to her waist. Her eyes were a 
dark blue, large and lustrous, shaded by black lashes ; 
her skin had the whiteness of marble, and her small 
mouth with its pouting red lips, gave it a piquancy 
that was charming. Her nose was her worst feature, 
delicate enough until it came to the nostril, where it 
projected out to a sort of a handle. Her large, white. 


In the Market Place. 


156 

Leghorn hat, laden with snowy plumes, was curved 
and bent on one side of her small, graceful head, and 
flared up on the other, its swaying feathers falling 
over the front. She was very slight, but tall, for one 
still in the middle of her teens ; and was clad in the 
thinnest of white drapery. A lace handkerchief folded 
over her bosom, the sleeves of her dress came just to 
her elbow, where they were met by long, black mits, 
and as she waved a little red fan to and fro there was 
the blue-white gleam of a diamond flashed from her 
third finger. 

Her companions were two women and three men, 
either one of the women was old enough to stand in 
the relationship of mother, but so unlike the girl. 
Nelson thought, that he felt like dragging her away 
from any such possible guardianship. They were 
coarse featured and loud mannered, although richly 
attired, and their whole ensemble stamped them as 
belonging to the class that float on the surface of the 
world’s respectability. 

One of the men, the oldest of the three, a hand- 
some man of fifty years, was all devotion to the girl. 
The young man, who was seated next to him, and 
who evidently was his son, as he bore a strong re- 
semblance to him, seemed anything but pleased with 
his father for absorbing her attention, judging from 
the scowling brows and angry flash of his eyes, which 
he darted every little while at Loth. The other man 
was also middle aged ; he had a small weazened face, 
a light sickly mustache, very much waxed at the ends. 
He was leaning with head bowed, apparently making 


173 


A Glimpse Into the Future. 

Mother and father are well provided for; Nelson, of 
course, must make his own way, and if I do not regain 
my health my Father in Heaven's will be done. We 
will still be lovers for all time and eternity. And in 
that world where the soul is divested of the flesh, 
where no illness, ailments, weakness nor wants of the 
body shall keep us apart; there in that land where 
there is no sorrow, no pain, no death, nor decay, there 
hand in hand, we shall walk up, up, onward, onward, 
till we stand before Him whose glory and brightness, 
eye nor heart can conceive of." 

Gartha felt the thin hand tremble in hers, and by 
the dim light of the lamp that fell upon her face, she 
saw that it was pale, and the sweet smile which came 
seldom now, shone from her eyes brighter, but sad- 
der than ever before. ''Gartha, dear," she continued, 
"I have no fear of death; I cannot understand the 
fear which most people have of death ; to me death is 
the resurrection of life, the freeing of the soul from 
the clay which clogs it. I do not want to die; on 
the contrary, I should far rather live, and be useful to 
those who love me, and make their lives happier." 

"Oh, my Mary," said Gartha, gently caressing the 
hand she held in hers, "you are not going to die, and 
leave your father and mother. Your death would 
break their hearts, break up the happiness of this 
happy home, and leave a blank in my life, which 
nothing could fill. If it should be God's will to take 
you, you would not go far from us ; our hearts would 
draw you back, and my eyes longing to behold you, 
would seek to penetrate the veil which obscured you 


174 


In the Market Place. 


from my vision. And oh, my Mary, if I should grow 
weak in the purpose I wish to carry out ; if I should 
allow my aspirations to become clogged by material 
things ; if my feet become weary, and my steps falter 
and stumble, you, from your spiritual heights so near 
to God, would in pity stretch forth your hand to help 
and guide me.” She turned her face and gazed 
thoughtfully out of the window, and the stars that 
glistened down upon her seemed in sympathy with 
the minuter ones which moistened her eyes, and 
coursed down her cheeks. 

''If we believe and have faith, we should not fear to 
die ; our Lord has given us the promise in the words, 
'I am the resurrection and the life ; he that believeth 
in me, though he be dead, yet shall he live, and he 
that believeth and liveth in me shall never die, but 
shall have life everlasting.’ ” 

"This is enough to pin our faith to, enough to 
prove that He was divine, for who but a God would 
have dared to utter them ? He was poor and unknown 
and He came with arms outstretched at a time when 
the world was steeped in darkness and depravity, 
when man knew or recognized no God but him- 
self, no law but human law, made for their own 
desires. He came with a sorrowing heart for their 
sins, a love boundless, telling the people He came 
not to the just but to save sinners. Surely men must 
be blind when they refuse to believe in Him, and 
reject His teachings, and proclaim the resurrection 
a myth. To me there is no better myth to live by, 
no better to die by. Believe, me, dear, before long 


A Glimpse Into the Future. 175 

some great disciple, an apostle of Christ, will arise to 
stay the destruction of the unbelief of the present 
day ; an unbelief which is more death-dealing because 
more hidden. 'Oh, yes, we believe,’ they cry, but as 
Christ told the Sa^^aritan woman, 'Ye believe, but 
ye do not know what ye believe.’ This apostle must 
come soon for the 'kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ 
He will come from the ranks of the people; he will 
be poor and unknown, carrying on his shoulders the 
cross of poverty. He will uproot the dead fungus, 
that now stifles the spiritual growth of Christianity. 
He will infuse new life into the blood of the dead men, 
who sit in luxurious homes writing sermons on what 
they please to call religion. A Christianity deadened 
by the clinging, barren ivy of materialism, which 
blinds them to all spiritual truths. Therefore they 
treat us to the brittle pastry, bon-bons, and sweet- 
meats, of a salvation, making its path where only slip- 
pered feet may tread, when we know it is full of 
quagmires and ditches. His Christianity will be as 
broad as the Universe, and as high as the stars; he 
will have no country, no clime, no home, but the 
church, that will rise on every three or four squares 
of the city streets ; every mile or two of the country 
roads ; with spires reaching to the sky, and with such 
architectural beauty that each will be forever a prayer 
ascending like incense to His name. But they must 
have doors wide and high, thrown open to all, rich 
and poor, high and low, saint and sinner. He will 
preach Christ crucified, and His simple, beautiful 
truths ; that Christianity is not a mere name, nor a 


In the Market Place. 


176 

mere creed, but a life, and by our works we are 
known. He will expound its truths to the people, 
truth, truth, everywhere he will proclaim, though it 
be as hard as flint, but to those who love it, it is as 
pure and soft as the mist which lies at dawn, upon the 
mountain peaks. He will give men something of the 
spirit of Christ, that will nestle in their bosoms like a 
dove, and kill the passions that now chain and enslave 
them and they will have a foretaste of heaven here on 
earth.’’ 

She still sat with her head turned to the window, 
her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had gro'^m 
larger with a far-searching gaze, as if they would 
pierce the veil which hides spirit from matter. 

‘'My Gartha,” said Mary, “I never had much liking 
for women with a mission. I have never believed 
you were one of them, but I begin to think you are ; 
and from now on don’t hide your light under a bushel, 
but let it so shine that all men and women may see it.” 

“I am but a poor, weak woman, having to contend 
with all the drawbacks and obstacles of my sex. I 
am a woman who will have neither the love of my sis- 
ters, or of men, unless some man like Arthur Lowell. 
It is the fate of all such women as I.” 

“Yes, women will be envious of you; they will not 
understand you, nor will they care to understand you. 
Men will admire your beauty, but will avoid you, be- 
cause of your intellect ; it is sad to think of, but it is 
true all the same, my Gartha,” said Mary, rising from 
her couch. “Good night my dear,” and Mary left for 


A Glimpse Into the Future. 177 

her own room, which was across the hall and looked 
out on the orchard. 

Gartha threw a light shawl over her shoulders; 
going to the window she stepped out upon the porch, 
and stood for some moments gazing on the night, 
deep, tender and mysterious as a dream. She could 
see the heavens with its shining planets, and through 
the trees the white line of the river, and in the dis- 
tance the hills rising up in black shadows. The oaks 
went on sweetly whispering her secret, the pines 
softly, musically sighing it, as the south winds came 
and went and gently caressed her cheek and hair. 
''Happy as I am,” she murmured to herself, "I cannot 
banish the thoughts which crowd upon me and point 
the other way.” She went in and closed the window. 

12 


CHAPTER XIIL 


THl^ INSUI.T TO HIS CHI^^-d'c^UVRS:. 

It was the first night of the opening of the long- 
looked-for and worked-for exposition, ppintings were 
brought from all parts ; some were genuine and some 
were not; the foreign paintings were given the best 
place. Then came the works of our own land; they 
were given the next best, then local art followed, and 
was treated accordingly. There is an element in 
human nature which is to see nothing good or beau- 
tiful in the things that lie around us; as possession 
dims the lustre of the brightest and rarest gem. 
There were to be speeches delivered in the lecture' 
hall by a few of the most distinguished citizens. One 
of the distinguished gentlemen who was to give a 
short address on ancient art said that he was pleased 
to see the hall crowded with the beauty, fashion and 
culture of the city; the creme de la creir'e; so many 
representatives of its wealth and refinement ; and he 
hoped the youths who were going to make art a pro- 
fession would follow in the footsteps of the old and 
famous men of the past, the old Masters. 

Seated to one side in a shadowy corner of the hall, 
was a dark, picturesque looking man, well known in 
this history. He would have been observable any- 
178 


The Insult to His Chef-D’CEuvre. 179 

where, even without his two constant companions, 
his pipe and his flute. As he leaned back in his chair, 
with his arm thrown over its side, and his broad- 
brimmed hat lying on his lap, his face very pale, and it 
seemed to show irritation at some of the speakers’ 
remarks. After a short while he rose, took his hat 
and left the hall, and proceeded to the large gallery, 
where he walked about for some time, taking but a 
casual glance at the different paintings, and not find- 
ing what he sought, he turned his steps to the smaller 
room. In a corner, hung between two highly colored 
pictures, where the light fell dimly upon it, their 
bright, glaring reds, yellows and blues, killing all its 
soft tones, was ^'Womanhood,” his chef-d’oeuvre, his 
masterpiece. His cheek blanched white ; his hat 
dropped from his hand on the floor; his black eyes 
shot forth a blaze of defiance, as he ran his fingers 
through his hair, until it stood bristling up as straight 
as matches, and almost as inflamable. '‘Womanhood” 
was not a masterpiece, nor was it a work of genius, 
according to a certain standard of art, but so far as 
knowledge, a dexterous handling of broad low tones, 
with a tender sentiment pervading it, a love for his 
art, and a desire to give the people the best that was 
in him, it was a masterpiece. Gartha’s pale violet 
robe blending into a back-ground of misty grays, the 
light from a window falling on her wavy masses of 
hair, giving it a rich shade of golden brown, soften- 
ing the lovely forehead, blue-veined and of marked 
ideality, the dark brows, the long, dark lashes shad- 
ing the large, clear eyes, in which he had caught the 


i8o In the Market Place. 

light of the soul, and which gave them their deepen- 
ing, changeful lustre. 

Carl stood before it until the people began to crowd 
the galleries, then picking up his hat from the floor, 
he took another hurried glance at the rest of the 
paintings ; then went back to the large gallery where 
he saw Arthur Lowell, standing speaking with two 
ladies. Carl passed him ; Arthur observed the pallor 
of his face and the fierce lightning flash of his eyes ; 
and he felt that things had not gone to Goetze's 
liking. He excused himself to the ladies, crossed 
over to where Carl stood looking at a picture. “I am 
heartily sorry, my dear fellow. I did my best for 
you,’’ he said, in his cool, polite manner, which now 
sounded so hollow and bloodless to Carl, who never 
moved his eyes from the canvas they were resting on, 
'hhose who had the finest paintings, the committee 
wished hung where they would show to the best ad- 
vantage. I was very busy at the time of the hang- 
ing, but gave a hint to the foreman in charge that I 
wished yours given a good place.” 

Carl shook his head and walked away ; he did not 
feel like hearing any excuses, no matter how plau- 
sible. 

The following morning, the papers gave a full and 
glowing account of the proceedings at the Academy 
the evening before. The paintings, for want of space, 
were slightly glanced over, but the end of the week, 
brought out the ‘‘Avalanche”; it had an article two 
columns long, in which it reviewed all that took place 


The Insult to His Chef-D'CEuvre. i8i 


the night of the opening. It devoted a column and a 
half to criticism of the different works of art. The 
writer must have had a personal grudge against Carl, 
and must have been a man who could not divest him- 
self of his prejudices ; to dislike the man, was to dis- 
like his work, and see no promise in it. When he 
came to mention Carl’s picture, it was to this effect : 

note no improvement in this artist’s work; his 
style is bad and his technique worse. He still per- 
sists in his conventionalisms, and shuts his eyes to 
anything like breadth, or free handling. He paints 
in the same low key, without any ability to master 
tonality ; he is heavy, very heavy. 'Womanhood’ is the 
portrait of a very pretty young woman, which re- 
deems the whole thing.” 

It was early Sunday morning; Carl was seated in 
his old willow arm-chair reading the "Avalanche.” 
He sat in his slippers, hatless, and coatless, with sus- 
penders hanging, the very picture of looseness and 
carelessness. When he came to where the local art- 
ists’ work was mentioned he ran his eye down the 
column until it rested on "Womanhood,” and he read 
to the end the criticism on his beloved chef-d’oeuvre. 
He rose from his chair, his face paler than when 
Arthur Lowell first beheld it the night of the opening, 
the brightness of his eyes adding a marble hue. "My 
life, my soul, what baseness ; what a man is made to 
suffer because he keeps his self-respect and won’t 
truckle,” he exclaimed, bitterly, as he paced the floor 
up and down, fondly hugging his pipe. "How con- 


1 82 In the Market Place. 

temptible, Mr. Cognesente. As I live, I will give you 
a piece of my mind, the first opportunity presents it- 
self.^’ 

He walked the floor for some time, then picked up 
his flute, threw himself back into the willow arm- 
chair. The old Frenchman, a few doors below, who 
made paper boxes for a living, and generally em- 
ployed his Sunday mornings in that way, thought 
when he heard the melancholy strains that the week’s 
business must have been very dull, with Monsieur the 
artist. 

The following morning Carl paid another visit to 
the Academy to have one more look at the foreign 
paintings, before they were taken down and sent to 
their various homes. On leaving the large gallery 
he thought he would drop, into Arthur’s room, as after 
the first feeling of being so cruelly overlooked had 
passed away, and he became calmer and considered 
the apology the professor had made, he bore him no 
ill will. He found Arthur sitting at his desk writing. 

‘'You happen to be in bad luck,” he said cordially, 
turning around in his chair and facing Carl as he 
came towards him. 

“Then you have read the puff in the ‘Avalanche’?” 
My soul, yes ; what a mean thing to do to one’s fellow 
man,” returned Carl, crossing over and seating him- 
self in a chair that stood near an easel by the window. 

“Yes, to write such an uncalled-for personal at- 
tack, under the guise of criticism, deserves a repri- 
mand,” said Arthur. Still, if I were you I would pay 
no attention to it; I had those two highly-colored 


The Insult to His Chef-D’QEuvre. 183 

pictures removed and others in a more subdued 
treatment hung in their places, which decidedly im- 
proves yours and the others also/’ 

^^Oh, the harm is done ; those flamingoes killed my 
work, killed it dead, and that uncalled-for attack has 
destroyed all the hope in me,” he said, throwing his 
hat on the floor, and running his fingers through his 
hair, his deep drawn breath seemingly to come from 
his toes, and pass out with the heaves of his great 
chest. '‘Yes, my soul, and all because I’m independ- 
ent, and do not agree with Cognesente on art; be- 
cause I do not think it right for my country to neglect 
her own talent, and go to foreign markets, and spend 
millions of dollars and let her own men starve, and 
that is why she has a starved national art.” 

"You must not take it so hard, my dear fellow, the 
portrait is one of the best in the collection; hang it 
in a room where there is any show of harmonious 
furnishing and it will bring out all its soft gray tones. 
Besides, you have your friends, and I will do all I can 
for you.” 

This meant to be consoling speech had no affect on 
the heart wounded Carl, he looked upon it as a 
humiliating patronage, which he did not care to take 
from Lowell. When he rose to go, Arthur rose also. 
"My dear fellow do not let this thing worry you ; of 
course it will sting for a while, but I do not think such 
criticism hurts in the end,” he said kindly seeing 
Goetze to the door. 

Arthur Lowell was not a philosopher, had he been 
he would have knpwn that words are things, and like 


184 


In the Market Place. 


seeds when they fall to the ground take root, and 
bring forth some kind of blossom; and the ranker 
they are the more they thrive. Nothing that is an 
injustice hurts in the long run, but how many years 
of toil and strife, often of great suffering, can be pre- 
vented by following the golden rule in regard to our 
fellow men. We know those who stand on the top 
stairs, stand there with flaming swords. You dare 
not approach unless you are confident your weapons 
are as sharp as theirs, and you can cut your way 
through ; but the battle is sure to be long and fierce. 
Carl after all was of a hopeful temperament, it was 
only when disappointments came thick and fast, one 
after another upon him, that he gave way to fits of 
melancholy. He was fond of work, and like all fine 
natures satisfied with but little. He believed there 
was a natural intelligence in every soul, when aided by 
reason, that in the end asserted itself, and placed one 
just where he belonged. But the world is so busy, 
so absorbed in the small things of daily life, that it 
seldom takes a look out on the broad field of battle, 
to see which wins fairly. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


IN WHICH SOCIETY RETURNS TO THE CITY. 

It was the month of October, the season of days in 
which nothing can exceed their beauty ; full ripe days, 
softened by faint shadows, and made dreamy by 
tender skies. Days when the fields and meadows 
sleep in the sunshine, and bathe in a flood of golden 
mist, as they stretch away to kiss the feet of the hills, 
that melt into an endless haze of nut brown, tinged 
with rose and purples. They were days when the 
south winds sang sadder but sweeter melodies 
through the pines at Tanglewood, and the cedars 
which threw their long graceful shadows under the 
forest trees, that rose tall and stately, and caught up 
the rythm and echoed it back in the rustle of their 
sear and yellow leaves. Oh, these days are the 
sweetest, tenderest, of all the year, they should be a 
fit semblance of the Autumn of our lives. They were 
days in which society was fast returning to the dust 
begrimmed city, from its various summer haunts; 
where it had gone to rest and recuperate for the 
coming winter’s campaign. Whether society had ac- 
complished this or not, that was for society to knov^ ; 
but those who stand on the outside for the purpose of 
observing society, thought that it came back about as 
much society blase as it went. 


185 


i86 


In the Market Place. 


The Van Court mansion, and the Van Court 
grounds were again open; the old oaks were fast 
shedding their leaves. Frank, the black steward was 
seen every day, for the past four weeks, with a dozen 
or so of dusky men cleaning paint, and taking up and 
putting down carpets; and io all inquiries about the 
family, his answer was, ‘'Massa will be here soon, I 
spec he’s hea befo Pse ready fo him.” 

Madame Bogardus, maid and the General, had re- 
turned with Sam, a son of the General’s old black 
cook, who when given her liberty, had taken herself 
off to ‘hib like a respectable freed pusscn,” as she 
said. It was evening, and somewhat late, and 
Madame sits alone, the General is out. Madame 
never inquires where the General goes ; of course the 
General has gone to his club. Madame reclines in a 
luxurious arm-chair of pale blue satin ; she is clad in a 
negligee robe of dark red wool, trimmed in some 
rich figured stuff, and her hair which she has loosened 
from its comb, falls down her back in a shining mass 
of gold. Madame is meditating, her meditations 
ought to be of the pleasantest sort, for nothing could 
exceed her triumphs at the Springs during the past 
summer. All men were at her feet, men of all ages 
and rank paid homage to her charms; she even 
eclipsed the beautiful young debutante, the only 
daughter and heiress of Judge Van Court ! Yes, even 
she had to take a back seat, when Madam Bogardus 
was present. But many who liked the young girl 
for herself, thought that her engagement to Laurence 
Carst was a mistake, that it should not have been 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 187 

announced until fall, and that it dimmed to some ex^ 
tent the brightness of the jewels in her crown, that 
awaited her entre to society. 

Yes, Madame purred all summer, purred sweetly, 
softly, in the ears, of young men and old men alike ; 
she glided so stealthily into their affections, or at 
least their passions, that they lived in a fool’s para- 
dise. Those yellow orbs, how deep and intense was 
their glance, her bosom, hills of snow, rising and fall- 
ing in voluptuous swells ; her magnificent arms laden 
with flashing gems, the undulating grace of her limbs, 
the sweep of her body, lured and fascinated them until 
their heads reeled, and they grew drunk with her 
charms. The fashion correspondents at the Springs, 
brought everything to bear in the way of descriptive 
art, in detailing her elegant toilets ; from the time 
she arrived until she returned home, her name, move- 
ments, and costumes, were kept constantly before the 
public. And still Madame is not happy, nor is she 
meditating on her dresses or social triumphs ; she has 
far more serious things to meditate upon; how she 
can best keep her dresses and social triumphs. 
Madame grits her pearls, and unsheaths her white 
velvet hands ; then closes their fingers, and sticks her 
nails deep into her palms; her yellow orbs as she 
gazes into the small wood fire in the grate, contract 
then expand, then glare as if she would like to 
strike at something. ‘‘Bah,” she hisses, driving the 
sharp claws deeper into the tender flesh, “I am 
thwarted, that fine young fellow has gone to Europe, 
I feel sure if I could but have carried out my plan I 


i88 


In the Market Place. 


would have brought them together in a way to let 
Carst see with his own eyes. How little she cared 
for him ; anything to prevent his marrying her/^ 

Madame grits her pearls. '‘Bah, what is the young 
artist to me ; what is his life, or her life ; yes, ten lives 
if they stand in my way, and it suits my purpose to 
get rid of them? Bah, what a loveless match, she 
would go a whole week at the Springs without speak- 
ing six words to him.’’ 

Madame relapses into meditation again. Poor 
mouse, how innocent of harm, yet there was no step 
taken, no movement made by the young girl, but 
what was watched by Madame ; no turn of her body 
or head but what was seen by a pair of cold blue eyes 
that sometimes her girlish beauty softened to a sort 
of pity, but this pity did not go undetected by 
Madame, and was the cause of her much reflection. 

But why blame Madame? She is a woman of the 
world, and knows well that this world, and especially 
her world, is a fluctuating world, and that society 
rises and falls, after the manner of commercial values, 
bank bonds, railroad bonds, government bonds, cor- 
poration stocks, and so on. And that those who sit 
enthroned upon the dizzy heights of fashion, — their 
subjects are anything but loyal; there are too many 
aspirants for the same place. Besides, Madame is 
aware that her throne is a slippery one, that a great 
volcano lies beneath it, only waiting for an eruption 
to blow her and her throne to the four winds. Ma- 
dame unsheathes her hands again, then closes them 
and wraps her nails in their velvet pile. "Carst was 


173 


A Glimpse Into the Future. 

Mother and father are well provided for; Nelson, of 
course, must make his own way, and if I do not regain 
my health my Father in Heaven’s will be done. We 
will still be lovers for all time and eternity. And in 
that world where the soul is divested of the flesh, 
where no illness, ailments, weakness nor wants of the 
body shall keep us apart; there in that land where 
there is no sorrow, no pain, no death, nor decay, there 
hand in hand, we shall walk up, up, onward, onward, 
till we stand before Him whose glory and brightness, 
eye nor heart can conceive of.” 

Gartha felt the thin hand tremble in hers, and by 
the dim light of the lamp that fell upon her face, she 
saw that it was pale, and the sweet smile which came 
seldom now, shone from her eyes brighter, but sad- 
der than ever before. ‘‘Gartha, dear,” she continued, 
“I have no fear of death; I cannot understand the 
fear which most people have of death ; to me death is 
the resurrection of life, the freeing of the soul from 
the clay which clogs it. I do not want to die; on 
the contrary, I should far rather live, and be useful to 
those who love me, and make their lives happier.” 

“Oh, my Mary,” said Gartha, gently caressing the 
hand she held in hers, “you are not going to die, and 
leave your father and mother. Your death would 
break their hearts, break up the happiness of this 
happy home, and leave a blank in my life, which 
nothing could fill. If it should be God’s will to take 
you, you would not go far from us ; our hearts would 
draw you back, and my eyes longing to behold you, 
would seek to penetrate the veil which obscured you 


174 


In the Market Place. 


from my vision. And oh, my Mary, if I should grow 
weak in the purpose I wish to carry out ; if I should 
allow my aspirations to become clogged by material 
things ; if my feet become weary, and my steps falter 
and stumble, you, from your spiritual heights so near 
to God, would in pity stretch forth your hand to help 
and guide me.’’ She turned her face and gazed 
thoughtfully out of the window, and the stars that 
glistened down upon her seemed in sympathy with 
the minuter ones which moistened her eyes, and 
coursed down her cheeks. 

''If we believe and have faith, we should not fear to 
die ; our Lord has given us the promise in the words, 
'I am the resurrection and the life ; he that believeth 
in me, though he be dead, yet shall he live, and he 
that believeth and liveth in me shall never die, but 
shall have life everlasting.’ ” 

"This is enough to pin our faith to, enougli to 
prove that He was divine, for who but a God would 
have dared to utter them ? He was poor and unknown 
and He came with arms outstretched at a time when 
the world was steeped in darkness and depravity, 
when man knew or recognized no God but him- 
self, no law but human law, made for their own 
desires. He came with a sorrowing heart for their 
sins, a love boundless, telling the people He came 
not to the just but to save sinners. Surely men must 
be blind when they refuse to believe in Him, and 
reject His teachings, and proclaim the resurrection 
a myth. To me there is no better myth to live by, 
no better to die by. Believe, me, dear, before long 


^75 


A Glimpse Into the Future. 

some great disciple, an apostle of Christ, will arise to 
stay the destruction of the unbelief of the present 
day ; an unbelief which is more death-dealing because 
more hidden. ‘Oh, yes, we believe,’ they cry, but as 
Christ told the Samaritan woman, ‘Ye believe, but 
ye do not know what ye believe.’ This apostle must 
come soon for the ‘kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ 
He will come from the ranks of the people ; he will 
be poor and unknown, carrying on his shoulders the 
cross of poverty. He will uproot the dead fungus, 
that now stifles the spiritual growth of Christianity. 
He will infuse new life into the blood of the dead men, 
who sit in luxurious homes writing sermons on what 
they please to call religion. A Christianity deadened 
by the clinging, barren ivy of materialism, which 
blinds them to all spiritual truths. Therefore they 
treat us to the brittle pastry, bon-bons, and sweet- 
meats, of a salvation, making its path where only slip- 
pered feet may tread, when we know it is full of 
quagmires and ditches. His Christianity will be as 
broad as the Universe, and as high as the stars ; he 
will have no country, no clime, no home, but the 
church, that will rise on every three or four squares 
of the city streets ; every mile or two of the country 
roads ; with spires reaching to the sky, and with such 
architectural beauty that each will be forever a prayer 
ascending like incense to His name. But they must 
have doors wide and high, thrown open to all, rich 
and poor, high and low, saint and sinner. He will 
preach Christ crucified, and His, simple, beautiful 
truths; that Christianity is not a mere name, nor a 


In the Market Place. 


176 

mere creed, but a life, and by our works we are 
known. He will expound its truths to the people, 
truth, truth, everywhere he will proclaim, though it 
be as hard as flint, but to those who love it, it is as 
pure and soft as the mist which lies at dawn, upon the 
mountain peaks. He will give men something of the 
spirit of Christ, that will nestle in their bosoms like a 
dove, and kill the passions that now chain and enslave 
them and they will have a foretaste of heaven here on 
earth.’’ 

She still sat with her head turned to the window, 
her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had gro^'m 
larger with a far-searching gaze, as if they would 
pierce the veil which hides spirit from matter. 

‘'My Gartha,” said Mary, “I never had much liking 
for women with a mission. I have never believed 
you were one of them, but I begin to think you are ; 
and from now on don’t hide your light under a bushel, 
but let it so shine that all men and women may see it.” 

“I am but a poor, weak woman, having to contend 
with all the drawbacks and obstacles of my sex. I 
am a woman who will have neither the love of my sis- 
ters, or of men, unless some man like Arthur Lowell. 
It is the fate of all such women as I.” 

“Yes, women will be envious of you; they will not 
understand you, nor will they care to understand you. 
Men will admire your beauty, but will avoid you, be- 
cause of your intellect ; it is sad to think of, but it is 
true all the same, my Gartha,” said Mary, rising from 
her couch. “Good night my dear,” and Mary left for 


A Glimpse Into the Future. 177 

her own room, which was across the hall and looked 
out on the orchard. 

Gartha threw a light shawl over her shoulders; 
going to the window she stepped out upon the porch, 
and stood for some moments gazing on the night, 
deep, tender and mysterious as a dream. She could 
see the heavens with its shining planets, and through 
the trees the white line of the river, and in the dis- 
tance the hills rising up in black shadows. The oaks 
went on sweetly whispering her secret, the pines 
softly, musically sighing it, as the south winds came 
and went and gently caressed her cheek and hair. 
''Happy as I am,” she murmured to herself, "I cannot 
banish the thoughts which crowd upon me and point 
the other way.” She went in and closed the window. 

12 


CHAPTER XIIL 


INSUI.T TO HIS CHE^-d’cEUVRE:. 


It was the first night of the opening of the long- 
looked-for and worked-for exposition, ppintings were 
brought from all parts ; some were genuine and some 
were not; the foreign paintings were given the best 
place. Then came the works of our own land; they 
were given the next best, then local art followed, and 
was treated accordingly. There is an element in 
human nature which is to see nothing good or beau- 
tiful in the things that lie around us; as possession 
dims the lustre of the brightest and rarest gem. 
There were to be speeches delivered in the lecture' 
hall by a few of the most distinguished citizens. One 
of the distinguished gentlemen who was to give a 
short address on ancient art said that he was pleased 
to see the hall crowded with the beauty, fashion and 
culture of the city; the creme de la creir'e; so many 
representatives of its wealth and refinement ; and he 
hoped the youths who were going to make art a pro- 
fession would follow in the footsteps of the old and 
famous men of the past, the old Masters. 

Seated to one side in a shadowy corner of the hall, 
was a dark, picturesque looking man, well known in 
this history. He would have been observable any- 


178 



The Insult to His Chef-D’CEuvre. 179 

where, even without his two constant companions, 
his pipe and his flute. As he leaned back in his chair, 
with his arm thrown over its side, and his broad- 
brimmed hat lying on his lap, his face very pale, and it 
seemed to show irritation at some of the speakers’ 
remarks. After a short while he rose, took his hat 
and left the hall, and proceeded to the large gallery, 
where he walked about for some time, taking but a 
casual glance at the different paintings, and not find- 
ing what he sought, he turned his steps to the smaller 
room. In a corner, hung between two highly colored 
pictures, where the light fell dimly upon it, their 
bright, glaring reds, yellows and blues, killing all its 
soft tones, was ‘"Womanhood,” his chef-d’oeuvre, his 
masterpiece. His cheek blanched white ; his hat 
dropped from his hand on the floor; his black eyes 
shot forth a blaze of defiance, as he ran his fingers 
through his hair, until it stood bristling up as straight 
as matches, and almost as inflamable. “Womanhood” 
was not a masterpiece, nor was it a work of genius, 
according to a certain standard of art, but so far as 
knowledge, a dexterous handling of broad low tones, 
with a tender sentiment pervading it, a love for his 
art, and a desire to give the people the best that was 
in him, it was a masterpiece. Gartha’s pale violet 
robe blending into a back-ground of misty grays, the 
light from a window falling on her wavy masses of 
hair, giving it a rich shade of golden brown, soften- 
ing the lovely forehead, blue-veined and of marked 
ideality, the dark brows, the long, dark lashes shad- 
ing the large, clear eyes, in which he had caught the 


i8o In the Market Place. 

light of the soul, and which gave them their deepen- 
ing, changeful lustre. 

Carl stood before it until the people began to crowd 
the galleries, then picking up his hat from the floor, 
he took another hurried glance at the rest of the 
paintings ; then went back to the large gallery where 
he saw Arthur Lowell, standing speaking with two 
ladies. Carl passed him ; Arthur observed the pallor 
of his face and the fierce lightning flash of his eyes ; 
and he felt that things had not gone to Goetze’s 
liking. He excused himself to the ladies, crossed 
over to where Carl stood looking at a picture. am 
heartily sorry, my dear fellow. I did my best for 
you,^’ he said, in his cool, polite manner, which now 
sounded so hollow and bloodless to Carl, who never 
moved his eyes from the canvas they were resting on, 
''those who had the finest paintings, the committee 
wished hung where they would show to the best ad- 
vantage. I was very busy at the time of the hang- 
ing, but gave a hint to the foreman in charge that I 
wished yours given a good place.’’ 

Carl shook his head and walked away; he did not 
feel like hearing any excuses, no matter how plau- 
sible. 

The following morning, the papers gave a full and 
glowing account of the proceedings at the Academy 
the evening before. The paintings, for want of space, 
were slightly glanced over, but the end of the week, 
brought out the "Avalanche”; it had an article two 
columns long, in which it reviewed all that took place 


The Insult to His Chef-D'QEuvre. i8i 


the night of the opening. It devoted a column and a 
half to criticism of the different works of art. The 
writer must have had a personal grudge against Carl, 
and must have been a man who could not divest him- 
self of his prejudices ; to dislike the man, was to dis- 
like his work, and see no promise in it. When he 
came to mention Carl’s picture, it was to this effect : 
'T note no improvement in this artist’s work; his 
style is bad and his technique worse. He still per- 
sists in his conventionalisms, and shuts his eyes to 
anything like breadth, or free handling. He paints 
in the same low key, without any ability to master 
tonality ; he is heavy, very heavy. 'Womanhood’ is the 
portrait of a very pretty young woman, which re- 
deems the whole thing.” 

It was early Sunday morning; Carl was seated in 
his old willow arm-chair reading the "Avalanche.” 
He sat in his slippers, hatless, and coatless, with sus- 
penders hanging, the very picture of looseness and 
carelessness. When he came to where the local art- 
ists’ work was mentioned he ran his eye down the 
column until it rested on "Womanhood,” and he read 
to the end the criticism on his beloved chef-d’oeuvre. 
He rose from his chair, his face paler than when 
Arthur Lowell first beheld it the night of the opening, 
the brightness of his eyes adding a marble hue. "My 
life, my soul, what baseness ; what a man is made to 
suffer because he keeps his self-respect and won’t 
truckle,” he exclaimed, bitterly, as he paced the floor 
up and down, fondly hugging his pipe. "How con- 


i 82 


In the Market Place. 


temptible, Mr. Cognesente. As I live, I will give you 
a piece of my mind, the first opportunity presents it- 
self.’^ 

He walked the floor for some time, then picked up 
his flute, threw himself back into the willow arm- 
chair. The old Frenchman, a few doors below, who 
made paper boxes for a living, and generally em- 
ployed his Sunday mornings in that way, thought 
when he heard the melancholy strains that the week's 
business must have been very dull, with Monsieur the 
artist. 

The following morning Carl paid another visit to 
the Academy to have one more look at the foreign 
paintings, before they were taken down and sent to 
their various homes. On leaving the large gallery 
ho thought he would drop into Arthur’s room, as after 
the first feeling of being so cruelly overlooked had 
passed away, and he became calmer and considered 
the apology the professor had made, he bore him no 
ill will. He found Arthur sitting at his desk writing. 

‘'You happen to be in bad luck,” he said cordially, 
turning around in his chair and facing Carl as he 
came towards him. 

"Then you have read the puff in the 'Avalanche’?” 
My soul, yes ; what a mean thing to do to one’s fellow 
man,” returned Carl, crossing over and seating him- 
self in a chair that stood near an easel by the window. 

"Yes, to write such an uncalled-for personal at- 
tack, under the guise of criticism, deserves a repri- 
mand,” said Arthur. Still, if I were you I would pay 
no attention to it; I had those two highly-colored 


The Insult to His Chef-D’GEuvre. 183 

pictures removed and others in a more subdued 
treatment hung in their places, which decidedly im- 
proves yours and the others also.” 

‘^Oh, the harm is done ; those flamingoes killed my 
work, killed it dead, and that uncalled-for attack has 
destroyed all the hope in me,” he said, throwing his 
hat on the floor, and running his fingers through his 
hair, his deep drawn breath seemingly to come from 
his toes, and pass out with the heaves of his great 
chest. ''Yes, my soul, and all because Tm independ- 
ent, and do not agree with Cognesente on art; be- 
cause I do not think it right for my country to neglect 
her own talent, and go to foreign markets, and spend 
millions of dollars and let her own men starve, and 
that is why she has a starved national art.” 

"You must not take it so hard, my dear fellow, the 
portrait is one of the best in the collection; hang it 
in a room where there is any show of harmonious 
furnishing and it will bring out all its soft gray tones. 
Besides, you have your friends, and I will do all I can 
for you.” 

This meant to be consoling speech had no affect on 
the heart wounded Carl, he looked upon it as a 
humiliating patronage, which he did not care to take 
from Lowell. When he rose to go, Arthur rose also. 
"My dear fellow do not let this thing worry you ; of 
course it will sting for a while, but I do not think such 
criticism hurts in the end,” he said kindly seeing 
Goetze to the door. 

Arthur Lowell was not a philosopher, had he been 
he would have known that words are things, and like 


184 


In the Market Place. 


seeds when they fall to the ground take root, and 
bring forth some kind of blossom; and the ranker 
they are the more they thrive. Nothing that is an 
injustice hurts in the long run, but how many years 
of toil and strife, often of great suffering, can be pre- 
vented by following the golden rule in regard to our 
fellow men. We know those who stand on the top 
stairs, stand there with flaming swords. You dare 
not approach unless you are confident your weapons 
are as sharp as theirs, and you can cut your way 
through ; but the battle is sure to be long and fierce. 
Carl after all was of a hopeful temperament, it was 
only when disappointments came thick and fast, one 
after another upon him, that he gave way to fits of 
melancholy. He was fond of work, and like all fine 
natures satisfied with but little. He believed there 
was a natural intelligence in every soul, when aided by 
reason, that in the end asserted itself, and placed one 
just where he belonged. But the world is so busy, 
so absorbed in the small things of daily life, that it 
seldom takes a look out on the broad field of battle, 
to see which wins fairly. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


IN WHICH SOCIETY RETURNS TO THE CITY. 

It was the month of October, the season of days in 
which nothing can exceed their beauty ; full ripe days, 
softened by faint shadows, and made dreamy by 
tender skies. Days when the fields and meadows 
sleep in the sunshine, and bathe in a flood of golden 
mist, as they stretch away to kiss the feet of the hills, 
that melt into an endless haze of nut brown, tinged 
with rose and purples. They were days when the 
south winds sang sadder but sweeter melodies 
through the pines at Tanglewood, and the cedars 
which threw their long graceful shadows under the 
forest trees, that rose tall and stately, and caught up 
the rythm and echoed it back in the rustle of their 
sear and yellow leaves. Oh, these days are the 
sweetest, tenderest, of all the year, they should be a 
fit semblance of the Autumn of our lives. They were 
days in which society Vv^as fast returning to the dust 
begrimmed city, from its various summer haunts ; 
where it had gone to rest and recuperate for the 
coming winter’s campaign. Whether society had ac- 
complished this or not, that was for society to knov/; 
but those who stand on the outside for the purpose of 
observing society, thought that it came back about as 
much society blase as it went. 


185 


i86 


In the Market Place. 


The Van Court mansion, and the Van Court 
grounds were again open ; the old oaks were fast 
shedding their leaves. Frank, the black steward was 
seen every day, for the past four weeks, with a dozen 
or so of dusky men cleaning paint, and taking up and 
putting down carpets ; and io all inquiries about the 
family, his answer was, ‘'Massa will be here soon, I 
spec he’s hea befo Fse ready fo him.” 

Madame Bogardus, maid and the General, had re- 
turned with Sam, a son of the General’s old black 
cook, who when given her liberty, had taken herself 
off to ‘hib like a respectable freed pusscn,” as she 
said. It was evening, and somewhat late, and 
Madame sits alone, the General is out. Madame 
never inquires where the General goes ; of course the 
General has gone to his club. Madame reclines in a 
luxurious arm-chair of pale blue satin ; she is clad in a 
negligee robe of dark red wool, trimmed in some 
vizh figured stuff, and her hair which she has loosened 
from its comb, falls down her back in a shining mass 
of gold. Madame is meditating, her meditations 
ought to be of the pleasantest sort, for nothing could 
exceed her triumphs at the Springs during the past 
summer. All men were at her feet, men of all ages 
and rank paid homage to her charms; she even 
eclipsed the beautiful young debutante, the only 
daughter and heiress of Judge Van Court ! Yes, even 
she had to take a back seat, when Madam Bogardus 
was present. But many who liked the young girl 
for herself, thought that her engagement to Laurence 
Carst was a mistake, that it should not have been 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 187 

announced until fall, and that it dimmed to some ex- 
tent the brightness of the jewels in her crown, that 
awaited her entre to society. 

Yes, Madame purred all summer, purred sweetly, 
softly, in the ears, of young men and old men alike ; 
she glided so stealthily into their affections, or at 
least their passions, that they lived in a fool's para- 
dise. Those yellow orbs, how deep and intense was 
their glance, her bosom, hills of snow, rising and fall- 
ing in voluptuous swells ; her magnificent arms laden 
with flashing gems, the undulating grace of her limbs, 
the sweep of her body, lured and fascinated them until 
their heads reeled, and they grew drunk with her 
charms. The fashion correspondents at the Springs, 
brought everything to bear in the way of descriptive 
art, in detailing her elegant toilets; from the time 
she arrived until she returned home, her name, move- 
ments, and costumes, were kept constantly before the 
public. And still Madame is not happy, nor is she 
meditating on her dresses or social triumphs ; she has 
far more serious things to meditate upon; how she 
can best keep her dresses and social triumphs. 
Madame grits her pearls, and unsheaths her white 
velvet hands ; then closes their fingers, and sticks her 
nails deep into her palms; her yellow orbs as she 
gazes into the small wood fire in the grate, contract 
then expand, then glare as if she would like to 
strike at something. ''Bah," she hisses, driving the 
sharp claws deeper into the tender flesh, "I am 
thwarted, that fine young fellow has gone to Europe, 
I feel sure if I could but have carried out my plan I 


i88 


In the Market Place. 


would have brought them together in a way to let 
Carst see with his own eyes. How little she cared 
for him ; anything to prevent his marrying her,' ^ 

Madame grits her pearls. '‘Bah, what is the young 
artist to me ; what is his life, or her life ; yes, ten lives 
if they stand in my way, and it suits my purpose to 
get rid of them? Bah, what a loveless match, she 
would go a whole week at the Springs without speak- 
ing six words to him.’’ 

Madame relapses into meditation again. Poor 
mouse, how innocent of harm, yet there was no step 
taken, no movement made by the young girl, but 
what v/as watched by Madame ; no turn of her body 
or head but what was seen by a pair of cold blue eyes 
that sometimes her girlish beauty softened to a sort 
of pity, but this pity did not go undetected by 
Madame, and was the cause of her much reflection. 

But why blame Madame ? She is a woman of the 
world, and knows well that this world, and especially 
her world, is a fluctuating world, and that society 
rises and falls, after the manner of commercial values, 
bank bonds, railroad bonds, government bonds, cor- 
poration stocks, and so on. And that those who sit 
enthroned upon the dizzy heights of fashion, — their 
subjects are anything but loyal; there are too many 
aspirants for the same place. Besides, Madame is 
aware that her throne is a slippery one, that a great 
volcano lies beneath it, only waiting for an eruption 
to blow her and her throne to the four winds. Ma- 
dame unsheathes her hands again, then closes them 
and wraps her nails in their velvet pile. "Carst was 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 189 

here to-day,’’ she soliloquizes ; showed him the bills, 
he said he would pay my dressmaker’s bill, but no 
others, until after his marriage. Does he mean to 
give me up ?” Madame is deadly pale, her eyes glare, 
and she shows her pearls, as she makes a movement 
to clutch at her throat. “Bah, why do I fear? No 
man was ever more a woman’s slave than Carst is 
mine ; besides, men are moral cowards ; he would do 
anything to keep from an exposure. Am I jealous? 
No, let him marry her, and if he dares to draw the 
reins to my expenditures,” Madame rises and paces 
the floor, her hair falling over her superb shoulders, 
over the red of her robe, down to her waist, like a 
veil of shimmering gold, blending in harmonious con- 
trast to her surroundings. She goes to the mirror. 
Why does she start as she beholds her face? Is it 
because it is so deadly white, or is it the stealthy cat- 
like glare of her eyes, as she binds up the yellow 
shining coils ? She leaves the mirror and throws her- 
self back into the satin covered chair, for Madame 
seems to be in no hurry to retire. Still after a few 
moment’s reflection she changes her mind, rises and 
rings for her maid, and with the changing of her 
mind, returns the peach-like bloom to her cheek, for 
Madame is too well schooled in the world’s tactics to 
even let her maid see the worst side of her feline 
nature. 

The Van Courts, accompanied by Carst, had also 
returned, there was no improvement in Mrs. Van 
Court’s health, having two or three of her nervous 
attacks at the Springs, but the Judge thought as soon 


In the Market Place. 


190 

as the excitement of Carrie’s coming marriage was 
over, she would feel better. Mrs. Van Court was 
disappointed and chagrined over her daughter’s entre 
into the beau monde; she did not take society by 
storm as she expected; those dreadful people, the 
Lawries, had bewitched her. Mrs. Van Court forgot 
that a young lady making her debut in the world of 
fashion, engaged to be married, is a bad thing for 
the girl, unless she herself is inclined to hold out 
inducements, and that young men are apt to shy off, 
or sheer off, as Captain Cuttle advised Bumesby 
to do. 

Carrie, with a will and determination, another part 
of her father’s inheritance, thought when once adrift 
on the sea of society, she would drink deep of its cup 
of pleasure, and forget the past, and her love for 
Nelson Lawrie. She knew she was beautiful, with 
wealth and position, and had all that the world in 
which she moved envied. But ever since the night 
of her debut, when she saw her lover side by side 
with other men, and compared Laurence Carst with 
Nelson Lawrie, the gay, laughing, impulsive girl be- 
came a woman, a woman capable of much that was 
good and noble ; had she been guided rightly, had she 
been left to her own instincts of right and wrong; 
had she even been free to take love as a teacher. 
After parting with Nelson that night, in the pathway, 
and her interview with her father the following morn- 
ing, she found that instead of being able to put her 
love for him aside, and trample it down and out of her 
life, as she hoped to do, it became a silent wailing 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 19T 

cry, that continually fought for utterance; a firmly 
rooted love, that she battled with to subdue. She 
would say to herself, ''I can bear this no longer; I 
will leave father and mother, home and inheritance, 
and risk all for Nelson’s sake.” But in calmer mo- 
ments, she would tell herself that as yet Nelson was 
poor, and comparatively unknown, and her wealth 
would go to Carst. ''Oh, if I could lay my fortune 
at his feet, it would be another thing,” she would cry. 

Carrie Van Court had no resources for a poor 
man’s wife ; the quitting of her home, her dis- 
obedience to her father’s wishes, would simply mean 
her disinheritance, and the loss of her patrimony; 
which would weigh upon a nature impulsive, affec- 
tionate and generous, with pride enough to smother 
her love, yet with no inclination to battle with pov- 
erty, nor brook its disadvantages. When she went to 
the Springs she found herself despising the people, 
whom she had hoped to dazzle ; despising her mother 
for her constant complaining and fault finding; and 
instead of being at the hop, the ball, instead of being 
the gayest of the gay revellers, the cynosure of all 
eyes, she would find herself stealing off with her 
wraps on her arm, to walk alone among the rocks, 
listening to the soft rippling streams, climbing up 
mountain sides, strolling in hidden pathways where 
nature speaks a language of its own. When she re- 
turned at evening to the hotel, and her mother’s 
room, her mother would remonstrate with her, and 
say that she was shocked at her behavior, and those 
dreadful people, the Lawries, had ruined her, and she 


In the Market Place. 


192 

was not fit for anything. She would answer: ^'In- 
deed, mamma, they have, and it would be a good 
thing if I had never met them.’’ Mrs. Van Court 
would be horror-stricken and fly all to pieces, which 
would bring on one of her nervous spells, that would 
keep poor Carrie a prisoner at her side for days. 
But as time went on and her marriage to Carst ap- 
proached, she became more reconciled to her fate, 
and lulled to some extent the passionate love that for 
the present took possession of heart and soul. She 
must accept the things she had no hand in making, 
she told herself. Laurence had been very consid- 
erate with her, she saw but little of him at the 
Springs, and he seldom made any demands on her; 
he left her at liberty to do as she pleased. 

Poor mouse, happy indeed that your innocence 
shielded you from a revelation so base, so treach- 
erous. She promised herself that when she was 
Carst’s wife she would join in the giddy throng, the 
whirl and vortex of the same people she despised at 
the Springs, she would drink deep of the cup, drink 
it to the very dregs. 

So the days passed, and October with her trailing 
mantle woven of mist and haze, and embroidered in 
all the deep, rich colors, hues and tints of ripe fruits, 
flowers and leaf, left a parting kiss on the brow of 
the dreamy Indian summer. It was the dawn of a 
bleak November morning, a young woman wrapped 
in a long, dark cloak, with its hood drawn up over 
her head, and a thick veil tied about her face, crossed 
the common and walked until she reached the gate 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 193 

that opened from the side of the road into the garden 
of Tanglewood, she opened the gate and walked up 
the path through the orchard to the back porch, and 
finding the door unlocked, she stepped quietly into 
the kitchen ; there was no one there, Peter, she knew, 
had risen long before; she slipped into the dining- 
room and from there into the hall, and passed noise- 
lessly up the stairs to the upper hall and crossed to 
Gartha’s room. She stood a moment at the door, as 
if listening for footsteps, then softly turned the knob 
and went in. Gartha lay asleep unconscious of the 
loudly beating heart and the burning eyes that were 
now gazing upon the pure, peaceful beauty of her 
face ; and it brought back for a moment to the dark 
draped figure, some of the old softness, the girlish 
impulse to give a ringing laugh, a great trill, that 
would resound through the house and wake its in- 
mates. She untied her veil, let it drop on the floor, 
and crept up to the bedside, crouched down and took 
the hand that lay outside the coverlet in hers. Gar- 
tha instantly awoke with a cry, ‘‘Carrie.’’ She had 
been dreaming that she had followed Carrie to the 
church where she had gone with Carst to be mar- 
ried, and was dragging her away from the altar. 
“My dear child, how came you here ; how did you get 
into the house?” asked Gartha, tenderly, and rising 
up in bed, she stretched out her arms, threw the hood 
back off Carrie’s face, and drew her head down on 
her bosom. All the bitterness of the past few months 
vanished ; she was again at Tanglewood, again with 
Maim and Gartha, her head sheltered on that dear^ 
13 


194 


In the Market Place. 


womanly bosom. All the old ardent, loving nature 
reasserted itself, and in the happiness of the moment 
she forgot but what it was one of those sweet sum- 
mer mornings, and she had just come tripping up 
the walk with her throat full of song like the birds 
to take her lesson, and that Nelson was down stairs 
in his studio ; her love, her lover ; crush it, stifle it, as 
she might, it would cry all the stronger. 

“I did not mean to come,” she said, caressing Gar- 
tha’s hand ; my father forbade me ever coming here, 
but I could not help it ; I have laid awake all night 
fighting against the desire, but fight as I would I 
could not overcome the longing to see you and Maim 
and the dear old house once more before my mar- 
riage takes place. I heard that Nelson had gone to 
Europe or else I should not have dared to come.” She 
raised her head from where it lay on Gartha^s bosom 
and took both of Gartha’s hands in hers, and there 
was moisture in her eyes, that were so dry and hot 
before. ^'And, oh, Gartha,” she went on, '‘if he 
should ask you about me in his letters, write him if 
you think it will be any consolation to him to know ; 
if it will make his life pleasanter to know; if he can 
work to better advantage, to more purpose by know- 
ing; I do not quite understand it, Gartha, dear, but 
I used to hear you and Maim and him talking about 
it, about what I am trying to tell you. I used to try 
to understand it then; I think I do a little now. I 
mean, Gartha, dear, that if he can better accomplish 
the aim he has in view, of gaining for himself a great 
name in his profession ; tell him that I love him with 


In Which Society Returns to the City, 195 

a love that no words can express. Tell him for me 
that every breath I draw will be a prayer to heaven 
for his welfare; that every thought of him will be a 
petition for his success.’’ 

She dropped Gartha’s hands, rose up from her 
crouching position and stood before her. ‘T thought 
once that I was not of them nor of you ; that I could 
not be of them nor of you; that I was not good 
enough in a way, that my training and education had 
been different from theirs and yours, and that I was 
so far removed from them and you I could never be 
like them nor you. But what would I give to be of 
them and of you, to spend my days in this quiet, 
peaceful home. Oh, Gartha, morning star, shed some 
of your pure light about me, throw some of it out to 
brighten the shadows of this dark, dark, day, my wed- 
ding day,” she cried, wringing her hands ; then they 
fell limp and motionless at her side, as she turned 
away, and stepped to the middle of the room; then 
back again to the side of the bed, where she stood; 
her face pale and haggard, her eyes dry and hot, and 
burning with unspeakable pain ; her upper lip drawn 
firmly down, hardening the lines of the mouth, and 
giving it an expression of bitterness. 

Gartha, happy in her own love, happy in the com- 
ing of her marriage, felt keenly the anguish of this 
poor girl. She had blamed her for the course she 
had taken, for the throwing away of Nelson’s love, 
for the sake of a rich and brilliant marriage with 
Carst. Blit to see the gay, impulsive, joyous girl, of 
a few months before, whom they all loved, who made 


196 


In the Market Place. 


every day bright and glad with her coming to the 
cottage ; so changed by suffering, that turned her to 
the hardened woman, that now stood before her. 
Gartha’s heart was pierced to the quick. She had 
forgotten Carrie’s suffering, in the suffering of her 
friend. Nelson; she had given the sympathy to him 
she should have extended to this poor child, who was 
forced by a parent’s will into a hateful marriage. For 
boast as we may about our civilization, and the free- 
dom of woman, she is still a slave, still bought and 
sold in the market of custom and conventions that 
society hedges her about with. It is only the strong 
woman, morally and mentally, who can stand up and 
claim, I am mistress of myself, of my body, heart and 
soul. She will have to know what this means. It 
means to be jeered at both by men and women; it 
means to turn her face from the world; to hew out 
her own pathway; to make her own happiness, and 
live her own grand, free life. 

Gartha rose from her bed, and caught Carrie’s 
hand, as she went to leave the room, her face was 
flushed, her eyes full of a tender pleading and affec- 
tion for her friend ; and her tall white figure stood out 
against the dark form of Carrie, like a ministering 
angel leading it into the light. 

''Carrie, dear,” said Gartha, pushing the hair from 
her brow, "I entreat you by all that is good and 
womanly in your nature, not to steel your heart 
against the crime of giving your hand to this man, 
while you love another. Oh, Carrie, this dark, dark 
day should be the brightest, the sunniest and gladdest 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 197 

day of all the days that come into your life. This 
day should be the crowning pride of your woman- 
hood ; this day you give yourself into the keeping of 
another, at the altar before God, you plight your 
vows, and when the final words are spoken, which 
make you man and wife ; there is no cleaving, no sun- 
dering the ties without the shame and curse that fol- 
lows. The words are few, but a silken thread, as it 
were, a mere spider web, but what chains, what bars 
of iron, can be stronger ; side by side you rise or fall 
with him. Let those who may look on marriage 
lightly, a mere contract to be severed at will ; but He 
who made the laws, made them inexorable, break 
them, and what ills, what sorrow will follow. Even 
with love, holy love, marriage is not a path always 
made soft with green grass, and strewn with the per- 
fume of wild flowers ; but one with many rugged 
places, many thorns and briars, that prick not only 
the hands and feet, but the heart as well. This day, 
Carrie, you stand before the world and God, telling 
a lie, that you must ever after live, live until death 
separates you ; a lie that will scourge you every hour 
of your existence. You are another’s, Carrie, you 
love him, he loves you with a love seldom given to 
woman, for it has all the fresh, pure sweetness of a 
splendid young man’s first passion, and you are 
bound to him, by that love., Carrie, love is sweet to 
the heart of every woman, it is like the blossoming 
of spring, opening and expanding her life, its fra- 
grance adding incense to her youth, and softening 
her later years, with a tender halo.’^ 


198 


In the Market Place. 


''Oh, my Gartha, say no more,’' she cried, releasing 
herself from Gartha’s hold and raising her arms 
above her head, there was a piteous appeal in her 
voice, but her eyes were dry and hot, and burned 
like coals of fire, "these better things are not for me, 
you only make the dark shadows that crowd into this 
day all the blacker by the brightness of your light. 
My marriage is not of my making, papa and mamma 
are responsible for it; they must take the blame of 
what follows ; my duty is to obey them.” 

"Carrie, there is no duty nor obedience, which jus- 
tifies you in this,” said Gartha, clasping her hands 
again, "it is a crime crying out against all that is 
sacred in the life of woman ; no, Carrie, though they 
dragged me to the altar, with uplifted arms, my an- 
swer would be, 'I do not love this man, my heart is 
another’s.’ ” 

"Stay, stay, say no more; it is too late, too late,” 
she said, tearing her hands from Gartha. She turned 
away, went to the door, opened it and stood for a 
second with locked hands, head thrown back and 
eyes raised to Gartha’s as if invoking her blessing. 
Then she left the room, walked slowly down the 
stairs, and out into the gray haze of the morning. 

Three hours later Carrie Van Court stood in her 
own room, arrayed in all the rich magnificence of her 
bridal robes, their whiteness scarcely outvying the 
paleness of her face, where rested no trace of the 
hard battle which had been fought that morning. 
There was no sign of the suffering she had passed 
through, unless the pain in her eyes, and the slight 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 199 

clutch of the fingers, as her maid fastened the neck- 
lace of costly gems on her snowy throat, the bridal 
present of Carst. 

’^'My daughter, are you ill? You act so strangely; 
you have never been yourself since you met those 
very peculiar people. I have always blamed myself 
for not having kept a closer watch on your coming 
and going ; I ought never to have allowed your inti- 
macy with those very odd people, said Mrs. Van 
Court, who was sitting in her chair, dressed in violet 
velvet and point lace. 

''No, mamma, I am not ill, I was not aware I 
looked so.’’ 

"My dear Clara, don’t worry, it’s nothing unusual 
for brides to look pale; you would not have Carrie 
look rosy, that would destroy all sentiment ; pale and 
interesting is the thing for brides, you know,” said 
Topping, who was posing before the mirror in pow- 
dered hair, powdered arms and neck, and dressed in 
the Parisian costume she had ordered for the occa- 
sion; a symphony in sea green, as she told Clara. 
And Topping’s cheek would have been a symphony 
in yellow, if it had not been for the thick coat of 
Recamier cream and rouge she had so artistically ap- 
plied to hide the wrinkles. 

"Now, Clara, dear, don’t it make you think of your 
own wedding day? How vividly it recalls mine. I 
can see myself so delicate and petite and white as a 
marble statue. Yes, as pale as Carrie, there, but I 
had such a lovely complexion, you can judge from 
the color of my hair, what my complexion must have 


200 


In the Market Place. 


been in those early years. Felix thought me fair ; yes, 
I was very fair. Now, Clara, do keep up, it will soon 
be over with, just think what a son-in-law you are 
going to have,’’ posing this time for the Judge, as he 
entered the room, smiling and bov/ing to the ladies. 
He was happy to see Mrs. Topping, thankful for the 
interest she took in the family, and her untiring help 
to his wife, in the preparation for Carrie’s wedding, 
ai Clara was not strong. Then looking at his daugh- 
ter, he remarked that there was no time in a girl’s 
life when she was so interesting as on her wedding 
day, and if she happened to be beautiful, there was 
nothing could exceed the charm of a bride. ^'And 
now, my daughter, everything is settled, seven thou- 
sand a year in your own right is not bad, with your 
jewels and wedding outfit; and when your mother 
and myself have passed away, all my wealth is yours. 
I shall leave it all to you, and so fixed that your hus- 
band shall have no control of it.” 

He stooped down and kissed her on the cheek. 
''The last kiss, my Carrie, before I give you to an- 
other.” The subject of Nelson’s interview and her 
own with her father, the morning after the ball, had 
never again been alluded to by either father or 
daughter. 

"Carrie, it is time we were going, the carriages are 
waiting and all the bridesmaids have assembled in 
the drawing-room,” said the Judge, looking at his 
watch, then turning to his wife, he added : "See that 
Charlotte wraps you up warm, the air is quite chilly, 
and the ride to the church is some distance, Come, 
my daughter, come.” 


In Which Society Returns to the City. 201 

Oh, how listlessly she puts her arm through his, 
the snowy veil helping to hide the deadly pallor of 
her face ; how she staggers and almost falls, as she 
steps to the door and down the stairs, to the drawing- 
room, where she is met by Laurence Carst, looking 
every inch a bridegroom. If there is any conscious- 
ness of his falseness, his baseness, if there comes to 
him for a moment any remorse or pain, for the be- 
trayal of one so innocent; there is no evidence of it 
in the cold glitter of his eyes, nothing of it in the 
brilliant smile, or in the touch of his delicate gloved 
hand, as he takes hers in his. He well knows, the 
eyes of the cat are on him ; he cannot escape those 
yellow orbs, try as he may. 

Yes, Madame Bogardus is there, superb in her 
shimmering satin and lace, superb in the splendor of 
the red glow of her rubies, that make blood stains on 
the white light of her glistening, gleaming, flashing 
gems. Madame is the wife of General Bogardus, 
who is a near cousin of Carst, which gives her the 
right to be there. Many eyes are on her, but no one 
would ever suppose that Madame ever meditated ; 
she is looking a little pale, it is true; still Madame 
never purred more softly, those yellow orbs were 
never more melting, never step more velvety, as she 
glided in and out in her voluptuous tread. The cat 
has caught her mouse, whether the mouse will suc- 
ceed in getting away before the cat sticks her claws 
too deep in her tender flesh, leaving her bleeding and 
sore, with wounds that will never heal, we must wait 
for time and this history to reveal. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THD COMING ANOTHER WEDDING. 

TangeEwood lay hushed and still in the twilight 
glow of a closing December day ; the cottage sought 
shelter behind the great trees, from the bleak north 
winds, that moaned and soughed through their bare 
branches, making music as weird as the touch of 
spirit fingers playing on harp strings. The chilling 
hand of winter is laid on all nature, but marred not 
its beauty, as some who are beautiful in death, the 
death which is only waiting for the resurrection to 
life. 

It wanted but a few minutes of the Lawries^ tea 
hour; the sitting-room was a dream of coziness, 
warmth and comfort. The heavy crimson curtains 
which were by day tied back by cord and tassel, so as 
not to exclude the sunshine from the plants, were 
now drawn together. Peter was seated in his corner 
near the large, radiant fire that threw over the room 
a red glow, which mingled with the pale, mellow rays 
of the student lamp that stood upon the center table. 
This corner was reserved for Peter during the winter, 
his work being done, until the spring, unless going to 
market and doing some of the small chores about the 
house. He had on a long gray flannel dressing gown 
202 


The Coming of Another Wedding. 203 

lined with red, that came down to his slippers, one 
his wife had made for him, as he complained very 
much of the cold. This with his high beaver hat, old 
and bent, his long limbs stretched out on both sides 
of the stove, Peter was a picture, I assure the reader, 
for it was Peter’s privilege to wear his hat in the 
house, a privilege he took without asking any one’s 
leave. Mrs. Lawrie was dozing in her chair, Mary 
reclined on the couch wrapped in shawls ; Gartha was 
seated by the table crocheting a small wool jacket 
for a poor woman’s child. She wore a dark navy 
blue cloth dress, with touches of dark maroon here 
and there, and at moments there was such a happy 
expectant look in her eyes, only the next to be tinged 
by a sweet sadness. 

‘‘Wal, Garthar,” said Peter, breaking the silence and 
pushing his hat back off his forehead, ‘hf some artist, 
Carl or some of those other high art students, could 
paint you jist as you sit thare with that look on your 
face, what a picture you’d make; they’d have noth- 
ing to growl about then, but it would be a purty hard 
thing to do, and I be blamed if any of them high art 
fellows could do it, with all their conceit and criti- 
cism, of values and tones an’ tonalities, an’ every 
other blamed nonsense.” 

‘Tt is very difficult to always catch one’s best ex- 
pression,” said Gartha, biting her lips to keep from 
laughing outright, ‘'besides one is not always in a 
pleasant mood, and sometimes chance arrangements 
are better than those thought over by the artist.” 

“Jist so, exactly, jist so,” replied Peter, bending his 


-204 


In the Market Place. 


hat over his eyes and lapsing into silence. After a 
few moments he tipped his hat back off his fore- 
head again. ‘‘Wal, Gartha, did you ever see any one 
sleep like mother, jist let her sit down any whare, or 
any time of the day, and she’ll drop off to sleep. I 
farmly believe she’d go to sleep on a log in the 
middle of the river.” 

*'That is the secret of her good health, it is such a 
blessing to sleep well,” replied Gartha. 

‘‘Wal, yes ; but you know what a hand she is to 
trot; I keep the fires a going and do the errands, 
order all the provender consumed in the house ; be- 
sides she’s got that blinky eyed gal out thar to help 
her.” Peter bent his head, rubbed his hands over his 
brows and eyes. ^'It’s as nataral for her to trot as it’s 
for her to sleep, she wouldn’t be happy if she didn’t.” 
Peter bowed his head and covered his face with his 
hands ; after a pause of some moments his face 
gradually appeared from behind them, his mouth 
stretching from ear to ear, as the form of Arminta 
rose up before him. ‘‘Wal,” he went on trying to 
master its contortions as his risibles got the better 
of him, ‘'that blinky eyed gal out thar in the kitchen 
is a curiosity sure, she makes me laugh every time I 
think of her.” Here Peter’s mouth stretched again, 
his laugh was a mere expanding of the lips, “but, 
Gartha, I don’t like to see her thar, not that I 
begrudge mother her help, oh no, Gartha, but it’s a 
kind of change that I cannot get used to ; no, Gartha, 
I don’t like to see her thar, I know what it means.” 

“What notions have you gotten into your head 


The Coming of Another Wedding. 205 

now, father?’’ said Mrs. Lawrie, waking up from her 
doze and looking over her glasses with sleepy eyes at 
her husband, having caught here and there snatches 
of the conversation and guessed at the rest.* 

‘‘You’ve got mighty sharp ears, mother, or else 
you’ve been playing possum; I thought Garthar an’ 
I were having a quiet little chat all to ourselves.” 

“You are getting all manner of strange notions 
into your head lately, father ; your corner there is too 
warm, it has a tendency to hatch them.” 

“I thought, mother, you war away up in the land 
of dreams, away up towering you know.” 

“I haven’t towered so high but what I have heard 
all that was said.” 

“Did you? Wal, jist so, exactly, jist so,” returned 
Peter. Then the door of the sitting-room was sud- 
denly opened and Arminta made her appearance. 
“Did you call, ma’am ?” she asked, folding her arms. 

“Arminta, I didn’t call, but I think it must be very 
near tea time,” answered Mrs. Lawrie, rising and 
following after Arminta, as she went back to the 
kitchen. 

“I wonder what Nelson thought of that gal, as a 
piece of high art,” remarked Peter, as Arminta dis- 
appeared out the door. “What a picture that curi- 
osity would make, what a study she’d be for an 
artist’s brush. Nelson used to be etarnally sketching 
her, not only with pencil and paints, but mimick- 
ing her every movement and gesture. Poor boy, 
how dull the house is since he left.” 

Later on Arthur Lowell stood looking over 


In the Market Place. 


206 

Gartha’s shoulder, watching the nimble fingers plying 
the crochet needles. Carl was seated near Mary ; he 
was reading out of a volume of Mrs. Browning’s 
poems, and had paid no heed to Peter’s and Gartha’s 
little chat, as it was carried on in a low voice. Then 
the tea-bell rang and they all went out to the dining- 
room, bright with blooming plants, the glow of the 
fire, the warmth of youth and happy serenity of age. 

Arthur Lowell’s visits to the cottage had become 
more and more frequent, until every evening found 
him seated at Gartha’s side. He thought the cottage, 
so far as its arrangements, furnishing and home life, 
perfect. He would like to have his house as much 
like it as possible, so he said one evening to Gartha 
after their engagement, but it would be hard to find 
the rare, old-fashioned things that made it so artistic. 
As they were to be married in the spring, he told her 
of a house, some two or three blocks east of Tangle- 
wood. It stood on a hill, nestling among tall oaks 
and cedars. It had been built by a consumptive 
maiden lady from the North. Finding the climate 
more mild and moist than in her own northern vil- 
lage, she built the house with the intention of residing 
in the neighborhood the rest of her days. But after 
three years of quiet and rest, and having, as she sup- 
posed, fully recovered her health, a longing came 
upon her to return once more to live in her own beau- 
tiful native town, where she died. The house had 
been sold, but was now for rent, and he had rented 
it. The rooms, six in number, were large and airy, 
J-nished in walnut and oak, and from its front porch, 


The Coming of Another Wedding. 207 

one had a full view of Tanglewood. A short distance 
from its gate a path wound from the road, leading up 
to the door of a small Gothic chapel, seamed and 
blackened with age, but the Virginia creepers which 
twined up about its walls and steeple added much to 
its picturesqueness. 

When the family returned to the sitting-room, 
Arthur, in his most graceful way, begged permission 
to lead Mary to the piano ; the evening would not be 
complete without his favorite ‘‘Blue Bells of Scot- 
land,’’ and other airs by herself and Carl. Mary was 
not exactly a St. Cecelia, her music was more like the 
warm showers of the first May days and the soft sun- 
shine that follows, than devotional. 

Slowly, slowly, the notes rise and fall, heart speaks 
to heart of sweet love, of tender wooing, of delicious 
dreaming and of future happy hours. Mrs. Lawrie 
forgot her cares and troubles, her head fell back in 
a doze, and her spirits soared up, up, among the 
blessed. Peter also forgot himself, and time reverted, 
and he was again young and back in his dear, anti- 
quated New England village, and the heat of the 
fire and magnetism of youth infused new vital force 
into his blood, and awakened a touch of the old pas- 
sion which had long slumbered, and he was again in 
love with his wife, who was once more the young 
and handsome Susane Simmons. Then the slender 
fingers grew tired, and ceased their motion, Carl’s 
chest stopped heaving, and gradually the flute rip- 
ples died away and each one was brought back to 
reality. 


2o8 


In the Market Place. 


‘'Mary, 'dear , don’t weary yourself,” said Mrs. 
Lawrie, opening her eyes, after she had come down 
from the clouds ; then she rose and beckoned Peter 
to follow her, and she left the room. And it was only 
a little while when Carl took his leave for home, and 
Mary retired to her room, and Arthur and Gartha 
found they had the sitting-room all to themselves. 
They lingered long in the mutual converse which is 
only known to lovers. Love is a dead language, so 
far as speech is concerned, but there may be volumes 
spoken in the touch of the hand, in the glance of the 
eyes, and the blush that mounts like flame to the 
cheek and as quickly pales again. To Gartha with 
her natural refinement, which was her inheritance 
and made more exquisite by cultivation, a desire for 
the beautiful, to see it in all things and surround her- 
self with it, this wealth of love would often make her 
pause in her daily task and ask herself if this crown- 
ing happiness had not come to her too suddenly, if 
it were real or only a dream from which she would 
awaken to a sunless day. For in all her imagining of 
her ideal, she never fancied the realization would be 
so fair. Sometimes when the sense of her love, of 
its fullness and richness came upon her, she would 
grow faint with joy; her roses were too ripe, her 
exotics too rare; she dare not inhale so much per- 
fume; the lilies would have suited her better. “Am 
I worthy of all this ?” would be her mental interroga- 
tion. “Will I grow indolent and depend too much 
on another and allow the things of this world to clog 


The Coming of Another Wedding. 209 

my aspiration ? Ah/’ she would answer, ' Vho could 
be more worthy of it all than Arthur Lowell ?” 

They stood near the window, Arthur with his arm 
about her waist, and nothing could be more sug- 
gestive of th« stronger sheltering the weaker; but 
Gartha had no consciousness of the stronger, the 
weaker or superior; she only knew that she loved 
him, that he was her ideal, her king. They stood 
there in the gladdening warmth, in the midst of the 
greens and crimsons and the pale pinks of the flower- 
ing plants, the red gold of the fire-blaze that danced 
and leaped and threw fantastic shadows about them 
and on the walls, over the pictures, and peeped and 
laughed, coquetted and kissed, and wrestled with 
Cupid to keep him from sticking his arrow too deep 
in one heart at least. They stood there a picture 
of the highest art, a group which was a masterpiece 
chiseled by the great Sculptor of all. 

14 


BOOK 11. 


CHAPTER I. 

WHAT DOES SAY? WE) DO NOT KNOW WHAT HE SAYS. 

It was one of those cold, clear mid-winter nights ; 
the January thaw that had come in with the begin- 
ning of the month had disappeared with a heavy fall 
of snow. The thermometer had made a run down 
to zero and remained there for four and twenty hours, 
which was the longest stretch of cold at that tempera- 
ture in the recollection of the oldest inhabitant of the 
city or state. All day long the tramp, tramp of many 
feet, coming and going, softened the snow to slush 
and mud about the ''Market Place.'’ The occupants 
of the stalls and booths took shelter behind their 
half-drawn shutters, and every little while warmed 
their hands over the small charcoal stoves. The 
torch lights on the stands spattered and spittered, 
throwing the shadows of the passers-by over the 
pavement, and over the street, in all sorts of gro- 
tesque forms. The electric lights flickered and 
sizzled above the heads of the crowd. Women, in 
rich silks and jewels, muffled to their chins in costly 
furs; women thinly clad, with shawls thrown over 
210 


211 


What Does He Say?, 

their heads, shivering with the cold as they carried 
a child in their arms, as poorly clad as themselves; 
women with bold, flashing eyes and bolder faces, the 
rouge thick on their cheeks. They laugh and chat 
gaily as they pass on, or stop to purchase some 
oranges or an apple, and stretch out a bare hand for 
the change, the fingers of which are laden with gems 
that catch the yellow flame of the torches and throw 
it out again in sparks of a hundred hues. Men ele- 
gantly dressed, but with slinking gait and furtive, evil 
eye ; men with the collars of their great coats drawn 
up about their ears, very comfortable looking; they 
walk with a quick, buoyant step, as if all was well with 
them. Other men, having no outer coats, their bare 
hands thrust down in their trousers’ pockets for 
warmth, their shoes down at the heels, walk with a 
shifting, shuffling step, which even the intense cold 
has no power to urge on and keep pace with their 
fellows. These are they who falter by the way-side, 
lose hope and courage and their grip in the fray of 
life. And the crowd surged on, to and fro, along 
Broadway, past the Market Place, along Sixth street, 
and up the Ave. P. 

The Ave. F., which was about a block north of the 
Market, Place, ran east and west for some miles, and 
was lined on both sides with small shops of every kind 
and description, which go to supply the wants and 
commodities of the people, from the laborer up to the 
well-to-do artisan, clerk and salaried man. These 
shops kept open until nine o’clock in the evening, 
and on Saturdays until ten. Here gathered the young 


212 


In the Market Place. 


saleswomen, employed in the large fashionable down- 
town stores, that close at six. The young mechanics 
and clerks, out for a jaunt, the young couple just 
gone to house-keeping out to make a few purchases, 
looking for bargains. All these, with fathers, mothers 
and children, crowded this avenue, clear from Twenty- 
eight St. down to the Market Place, where they 
stopped for their food supplies, and in the evening 
when the shops were bright with electric lights they 
made a gay medley throng. 

Down in the lower part of the Ave. F., and to the 
southeast, around Sixth and Seventh streets, to the 
northeast, people live in small, tottering tenements, 
which line the sides of the short cross-streets and 
alleys. These short cross-streets lead into the Ave. 
F., or rather lead off it. They are filled with little 
huckster shops, saloons, groceries, where lager beer 
is kept on tap, bakeries with a small round table in 
one corner, covered with a marbleized oil-cloth, 
where some hungry man or woman can purchase a 
cup of coffee and a bun for five cents, the coffee re- 
markable for its grounds and muddiness. In the 
summer months, from the Levee up as far as 
Fifteenth street, the whole district is alive with multi- 
tudes of men, women and children, from all coun- 
tries and climes, a mixture of all nations, from the 
native negro to the Spaniard, the Italian, Chinese, 
Pole and the Russian Jew. But from Tenth street 
up to Fifteenth the neighborhood is better and has 
a sort of individuality of its own ; a sort of quaintness 
is to be seen in the small one-story house, with a 


213 


What Does He Say? 

porch and creeping vines, a front yard, with its bed 
of geraniums, and next to this is perhaps one of 
more pretentions, a two-story brick, setting its front 
squarely down upon the pavement. Then farther on, 
a modern row of two-story flats of three rooms. 

Between Fourteenth and Fifteenth streets upon 
the Ave. F. was a Methodist Holinesss Church Mis- 
sion. It was a long, narrow room that had been 
used for a store. The ceilings were high, and there 
were large plate-glass windows in front, and large 
double doors opened from the street into the hall. 
The Rev. Mr. Clifton held services here three times 
a week, which included Sundays ; the rest of the even- 
ings it was presided over by some Christian women 
workers, women gifted in prayer, and those, with 
sweet voices, led the singing — with some young and 
pious girl playing the organ. 

On this Friday evening the Rev. Cyrus Alvin, so 
beloved by his congregation, and especially the poor 
and the working people, was to preach. He preached 
at the Mission every Friday evening, which brought 
crowds of the same class who were to be found in the 
Market Place. Cyrus Alvin was one of those rare 
men, who, at an early age, became imbued with an 
ardent desire to save his fellow men. He looked 
out on the great, wide world, with a broad reaching 
mind and far-seeing eyes. Proctor, the poet astron- 
omer, says, ‘'There are one-story men, two-story 
men and three-story men, with a sky-light in their 
heads.’’ Such a man was Cyrus Alvin in his line. He 
not only wanted to sweep the earth of sin, but to 


214 


In the Market Place. 


teach men that it lay within themselves and in their 
own power to scale the heavens. He felt that he had 
something to give the world, some new message (that 
is the old put in a new way). Every day he saw 
thousands and thousands of men and women going 
down to destruction and death, slaves to the pas- 
sions that they made no effort to subdue, but rather 
sought by every means to stimulate, until desire and 
gratification became the dominant vice of their lives, 
and that desire and gratification was the dominant 
vice of the age. That many of the old ideas in regard 
to heroes and heroism must be gotten rid of and 
given place to new. That the only heroism is where 
men or women give their lives to the saving and 
uplifting of humanity, and in doing so became saved 
and uplifted themselves. That war in this age should 
not be tolerated, unless against tyranny and oppres- 
sion, and in defense of one’s own country. That 
every schoolboy should be taught and impressed that 
to butcher and kill his brother man in war, for the 
sake of conquest, was not bravery nor heroism, but 
barbarism, paganism, animalism. Using the words 
of the scriptures, ‘‘He that saveth a soul is greater 
than the general who taketh a whole City,” that the 
teachings of Christ are inexhaustible, equal to any 
progress, capable of the greatest heights and deepest 
depths, and not a sentence in the New Testament 
but what teaches the saving and uplifting of the whole 
human family. That our Lord meant men to be free, 
to have a taste of His peace, joy and happiness here 
on earth, and that all things should be theirs, and 


What Does He Say? 

that they should rise to the full stature of a man, 
which means to be the sons of God. And the only 
road to this was in the annihilation of the passions, 
not good, healthy, honest, human passions, but their 
excess, their dominance, until men became their 
slaves and monsters instead of men. That was not 
necessary, as the old preachers thought, for a man or 
woman to go on sinning until they died, for if sin 
brings its attendant miseries, we can never then reach 
the God-like here. That the soul of man must be fed 
from the source of all spirit, which is God, and if a 
man does not live in God, and the love of God, he is 
simply an animal, and the beast in him becomes king, 
making all kinds of demands upon him, and this king 
is the passions. 

So we find Cyrus Alvin, on this cold winter’s night, 
when Gartha Rowland first heard him preach, little 
thinking she herself would be called upon to drink 
of the bitter cup, and drink it to the very dregs; 
when she cried out within her, ‘‘that he was the man 
she had prophesied of.” Three years before he had 
startled his large congregation in a western city, 
where he was pastor of a very flourishing Methodist 
church, by a sermon on the second blessing, or the 
higher Christian life, which he kept up, much to the 
annoyance of some of his more wealthy members 
who did not believe in any such nonsense that any one 
could live without sinning this side of the grave. 
When his term of years expired he left the church to 
go out as an evangelist, feeling he would not be so 
hampered and that he could reach more people that 


2i6 


In the Market Place, 


way and lead them to this higher Christian life. He 
loved God’s church, but his spirit chafed and fretted 
under its discipline, its narrow confines, and those he 
was obliged to obey. He wanted more scope for his 
thought. He was heard to say once that most of his 
church members were spiritually invalided, gospel 
hardened, and the rest were sick. That he had to 
listen to bickerings, carpings, chitter, chatter, and 
that he suffered from all kinds of petty jealousies ; 
That if he was seen to greet Sister Piefer, who was 
poor, but a saint, often or very cordially, Mrs. Snob 
gave him the cold shoulder for weeks, because Mrs. 
Snob’s husband gave dollars to the church, where 
Mrs. Piefer only gave cents. 

He had now been over a year in the old city, and 
his followers had bought the old Methodist Taber- 
nacle down in the heart of the city, which he filled 
to its doors every time he preached, which was twice 
on Sunday, and on week nights when he was not 
engaged at the different Missions. He was scarcely 
forty years old, and had lifted up more men and 
women out of the sloughs and troughs of sin and 
set them squarely on their feet, than any other 
preacher of his day. There were hundreds and hun- 
dreds of men and women, who could testify to being 
slaves of strong drink, that had been cured under his 
preaching, as he himself said, ‘‘The Holy Spirit had 
burned sin and the desire and appetite out of them, 
and these men and women bless His name.” 

When Gartha reached the Mission there were still 
a few people straggling in; as she stepped up from 


What Does He Say ? 


217 


the pavement upon the floor of the vestibule, a woman 
from the easterly direction stepped up at the same 
time. As she paused a moment to let the woman 
go before her, the electric light blazed up and shone 
full upon the woman's face, accentuating its pallor; 
but the face, though worn and marred by ill health, 
had lines of great beauty, such uncommon beauty, 
and such a distinguished appearance, that Gartha 
started back and took a pace or two, as the large, 
sunken eyes, which looked like deep, dark caverns 
with fire flaming up from their depths, met hers, and 
it seemed to her there was hunger, remorse and soul 
suffering in the glance she flashed into Gartha's, as 
she drew aside into the shadow, went in and became 
lost in the crowd. Gartha made her way to an upper 
part of the hall, near the pulpit, the people parting to 
let her pass, for the aisles were filled, and she was 
well known now and loved in that locality. 

It was not long until the Rev. Cyrus Alvin made his 
appearance. He had created quite a stir by his ser- 
mons, and his name was now on all lips, that is those 
in church circles, and many also on the outside. His 
name was not always spoken of in praise, but the 
greater part of the criticism came from men, who, 
while admiring his power and eloquence as a speaker, 
scoffed and sneered at his teaching. ‘‘How can any 
human being live on this earth and be holy, or live 
a perfect Christian life? We don't want this doctrine, 
we won't have it, away with it.” “What does he say?” 
His disciples asked themselves. “We cannot tell what 
he says. He says if we experien(y ^e blessing of 


!2i8 


In the Market Place. 


sanctification and receive the baptism of fire, which is 
the baptism of the Holy Spirit, we shall be cleansed 
from inbred sin and have a taste of Heaven here on 
earth. That while conversion and regeneration are 
good and great, it does not do the work in the soul, 
that the baptism of fire does, which is the second 
blessing. That which is born of the flesh, is flesh; 
that which is born of the spirit, is spirit. (John, chap. 
HI. VI. verse). What does he say?’’ they asked 
among themselves, like the apostles. ‘‘We do not 
know what he says.” 

But there were those who did give ear to what he 
said, and believed, and the spirit gave them under- 
standing. Now we will turn our eyes in his direction 
as he stands upon the altar with Bible in hand. 

He is of medium height, of slender, sinuous figure, 
the head is small and beautiful in contour, some 
silver threads streak here and there the light brown 
hair, which lies upon a forehead where intellect, 
ideality and spirituality predominate. The features 
are almost perfect in their clear cut lines, the brown 
mustache lends grace to the cheek and conceals a 
mouth where sweetness, refinement, tenderness and 
strength mingle. The deep set, grey eyes are quick, 
restless, and have an eagle-like flash; they are regu- 
lar soul catchers, soul holders. If there was a sinner 
in the audience, man or woman, whose face gave any 
sign of softening, they saw it and secured him or 
her, and he never rested until he had the man or 
woman up at the altar confessing his or her wrong 
doings. They were wonderful eyes in their intensity,^ 


What Does He Say? I19 

and the light which burned with a flame that radiated 
the whole face and made it lovely to look upon. 

After the audience sang a hymn, it knelt in prayer ; 
his voice was strong and musical, rising and falling 
like the echoes of a flute. The words came one upon 
another, fervent, eloquent and full of a passionate 
pleading, asking of God, through His Son, the 
Saviour of the world, to be merciful, kind and pitiful 
to His erring children, to soften their hearts one to 
another, and pour some of His divine love into their 
breasts, that they might love one another and help to 
bear each others’ burdens ; as He said to his apostles, 
‘'By this all men shall know ye are my disciples,” and 
finishing up with the Lord’s prayer. And when he 
rose from prayer, he read from Acts, "And being 
assembled together after His resurrection. He com- 
manded them that they should not depart from Jeru- 
salem, but wait for the promise of the Father, which 
saith He ye have heard from Me. For John truly 
baptized with water, but ye shall be baptized with the 
Holy Ghost not many days hence.” 

He stood before them the very embodiment of the 
message he had for them; every fibre of his thin, 
nervous body quivering; his pale face illumined; his 
eyes burning with a spiritual flame, which flashed up 
hot from his soul, like the crystal light of the stars in 
the firmament of night. He told his hearers that 
Christ came to save men. The whole New Testa- 
ment was a sermon for the saving of the human race, 
every sentence was replete with love and a burning 
desire for the salvation of humanity. Like in the 


220 


In the Market Place. 


parable of the sheep. ^‘What man having a hundred 
sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doeth he not 
leave the ninety and nine and goeth into the moun- 
tains and seeketh that which is gone astray. And so 
be that he find it, verily I say unto ye, he rejoiceth 
more over that sheep than of the ninety and nine 
which went not astray.’’ So you see, my brothers, 
our Lord wants a world of men and women, neither 
deformed in body, mind nor soul, but if the soul is 
sick in sin the body and mind must be sick ; keep the 
soul clean, pure and holy, and the body will be 
healthy, handsome and lovely to look upon ; for the 
body is the temple of mind and soul. Nicodemus 
went to Christ at night, and the Lord said to him, 
‘'Unless a man be born again of the spirit, he cannot 
enter into the life eternal, the kingdom of God. That 
which is born of the flesh, is flesh ; that which is born 
of the spirit, is spirit.” Jesus said to His apostles, 
“If I do not go away the comforter will not come.” 
And when he came he would burn and purge and 
cleanse the soul of inbred sin ; this terrible inbred sin, 
the sins of inheritance. The apostles had been con- 
verted and regenerated, they were the companions of 
the Lord, but they were still weak men, lacking in 
understanding, in much of the heavenly truths which 
he taught them, until they received the Holy Ghost 
at Pentecost ; what we term the second blessing. 

“I want to tell you of it to-night, dearly beloved 
brothers ; tell you of the peace and joy, and the love 
which comes to the heart, and which is the gift of 
God, to all who will seek it. It is within reach of 


221 


What Does He Say? 

all who will forsake their sins, and be converted and 
regenerated first. But the regenerated man has but 
a taste at times of the continual feast, which comes 
from this blessing; his Christian life is ups and 
downs, a constant warfare, battles every hour with 
sin ; days and days of drouth, only now and then a 
few refreshing showers ; a week or two when the 
balm of Gilead rests on the heart. But this gift 
blesses the soul for months with the rich odorous oil 
of love, it quenches its thirst with the wine of life. 
It makes poor homes beautiful, the bare plaster-walls 
become fair to the eye, they hang with pictures, 
costly tapestries and rare paintings, because the eye 
looks inward to the house of the heart. The bare 
boards now clean, become softer to the foot, as 
though covered with Axminster and Wilton carpets ; 
for when the soul has spiritual wealth, the material 
things are of little count. Yes, dear brethren, the 
humble meal becomes a feast, poverty after all is 
much in mind, I don’t mean abject poverty or desti- 
tution, God never meant His children, whom He gave 
sound bodies and minds, and hands to work, and a 
land flowing with milk and honey, to be put to any 
such straits. Under our present conditions we can- 
not get along without a little money, and most of 
these conditions are created by greedy and avaricious 
men, who lay burdens on other men’s backs and are 
not willing to carry any themselves. ‘Come unto me 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give 
you rest unto your souls. Take my yoke upon you 
and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, 


221 


In the Market Place. 


for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ Yes, 
all must labor ; work is sweet, and more sweet when 
seasoned with love. God’s blessing is upon the honest 
wages of the workman, when he brings it home to the 
good wife at the end of the week; and, my dears, 
when you get the gift of the Holy Spirit, your little 
money becomes a gold mine, it destroys all desire for 
liquor, tobacco and all kinds of stimulants. It burns 
the sin out of you, brother. 

‘‘You come home to a good fire in the cold winter’s 
night, and there is plenty of coal in your cellar ; in the 
morning you get up to a comfortable breakfast, a 
good cup of coffee, with bread, a slice of ham or 
bacon, and there is plenty of meat and potatoes for 
dinner; plenty of good warm clothing for your wife 
and children, besides peace in your breast and in your 
home, and love for God and your neighbor. How 
many of you men who are here tonight, who are 
slaves to strong drink, which keeps your poor wives 
and children cold and hungry, and your homes deso- 
late. Come up to the altar and be saved, seek this 
blessing and become free men in Christ Jesus. This 
gift, dearly beloved, gives you a taste of Heaven here 
on earth ; it not only gives you the water of life, but 
the wine also, brother. Jesus likens this blessing, this 
heavenly gift, to a merchantman, traveling into a 
far country in search of goodly pearls; he comes 
across one of great value, of great price ; he sold all 
his other rare and costly pearls to purchase this one 
pearl of great value. Oh, my brother, come and pur- 
chase this pearl of great price, this precious jewel, 


What Does He Say? 


223 


this gift from God; it’s for all who seek it, for the 
most humble; it costs no money, all the gold mines 
on earth couldn’t buy it. Who will place all on the 
altar, oh, my friends, come and purchase this heavenly 
gift, this peace which passeth all understanding. 
Christ was the merchant-man, who purchased this 
pearl of great price, for you and for me, by His death 
on the cross and His resurrection. Come and seek 
this treasure, this beautiful thing that nestles in the 
heart like a dove. Come all those who labor, who are 
weary, tired and sin-sick, who are poor, despised and 
forsaken, and drink of this wine of life.” 

His face seemed transfigured as the words fell 
from his mouth like a bubbling spring, his eyes shone 
and glowed and flashed with a holy light, which 
seemed to send its flame into every heart around 
him and burn there. ‘'Throw off the yoke, my chil- 
dren, the yoke that galls,” he went on, “the hidden 
habit, the secret sins which, while you hate them, 
keep you their slave and degrade your manhood 
and womanhood. Come, brother, the earth is yours, 
the beautiful heavens, with its violet blue, its silvery 
sailing clouds, the meadows and fields of waving 
grain, its sunset at evening, when the day’s work Is 
ended. Yes, the earth is yours, my beloved brethren. 
The meek inherit the earth. A man doesn’t have to 
die to lose his soul; ten to one men have bartered 
away their souls years before their death, and when 
the hour of death comes they cry in vain for their 
souls. What will a man give in return for his soul, 
the soul he has traded away for a few worldly honors ? 


t 


•224 


In the Market Place. 


A great many think we must wait until we die before 
gaining this blessing; the Bible says nothing about 
growing spiritually after death. Dear brethren, 
eternity is here, around and about us, we are living 
in eternity, the soul saved is the gift of eternal life 
from God. If we but pay the price for it we can have 
a taste of heaven here, a taste of its peace, rest and 
joy, which is a continual feast. ‘Come unto me all 
ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you 
rest unto your souls.’ ” 

When he ceased speaking many shouted and sang, 
many more wept and confessed their sins as they 
crowded about the altar. Gartha, having a long way 
to go, left as soon as the sermon was finished. When 
nearly all the people had gone, a woman, who had 
been kneeling in a corner near the altar, rose, came 
forward and threw herself at his feet, and covered her 
face with her thin, almost transparent, hands. She 
bent her tall, reed-like form until her head almost 
touched the floor. She wore a small, black bonnet, 
with its strings tied under her chin, and from it hung 
a long, black tissue veil. Wrapped about her shoul- 
ders was a heavy, old-fashioned, but exceedingly fine, 
broche shawl, what is called camel’s hair, its rich 
colors were now faded, and in its best days it was 
used as a cairiage wrap. Her whole body was 
wrenched and convulsed with sobs. “Oh,” she cried, 
“this wonderful Jesus you speak of, dear sir, can it 
be when He takes possession of a man’s heart He 
becomes like unto you. Oh, I ask you to pray for 
me, to this beautiful Christ, pray that He will give 


What Does He Say? 225 

me some of this love, some of this rest and peace you 
speak of. Oh, I pray Him to ease this aching, burn- 
ing pain in my heart ; ease this thirst, this consuming 
desire for revenge. Dear sir, I knew your face when 
you stepped upon the platform this evening. I saw 
it for the first time last May, when I took up my 
watch in the 'Market Place,’ yes, as you passed in 
the crowd, about ten o’clock, I picked it out of all 
the faces of the men that came and went to and fro 
that night, and every night since then when I have 
taken up my watch under the shadow of the great 
window of the store, like a sleuth hound, looking, 
waiting and watching for one face, the face of the 
man to whom I gave up all that a woman holds dear 
and sacred. I flung away home, husband and child 
for him, and after giving him thirteen years of my 
young life, he deserted me, cast me aside, with as 
little thought as the young monsieur, who for ten 
minutes whirls la petite grissette in the dance at the 
Jarden Mabille. 

"I have walked the city streets all day, from morn- 
ing until dusk, in the broiling sun of summer, in the 
heat and dust, in the rain and mud, looking for him, 
and had I met him, I would have killed him. Oh, yes, 
dear sir. Two weeks ago, just at dark, I had walked 
all day, in the biting cold, in the snow and slush. I 
was on my way home to my little room, weary, worn, 
foot sore and bedraggled ; I felt bitterly my humilia- 
tion and degradation, which added fuel to the flames 
of vengeance in my breast. Seeing the light and 
warmth in here, and hearing the sweet notes of the 
15 


In the Market Place. 


226 

organ, I knew it to be a place where some religious 
sect held their services. I thought I would go in and 
rest me. I dropped into a seat about the middle of 
the hall; some young girl with a soft voice sang a 
hymn; I sat for half an hour and the singing and 
praying went on ; when I rose to leave I felt more at 
ease, more soothed and comforted. I happened to 
pass this way to-night, and something urged me to go 
in, and I sat on feeling restful and hating to leave; 
but I had just gotten up to go when you came up on 
the platform, and I seated myself again. Oh, help 
me, pray for me,’’ she cried, ‘‘I have been a great 
sinner, for years I have lived in sin ; I am an adultress, 
a wretched, unhappy woman; I would have died in 
my sins if it were not for you. The merciful and 
tender Jesus you tell of, will He forgive me and wash 
my sins away? I have never heard any one tell of 
Him as you have to-night ; it is like some wondrous 
story that is lost to half the world. I used to hear my 
mother speak of Him, when a child; in after years, 
when His name was mentioned in my hearing, I only 
mocked and scoffed with others.” She clasped his 
knees and kissed his feet. 

He bent down, took her long, thin, white hands in 
his and lifted her up, and brushed back the waves of 
black hair from her temples. Her face was an inter- 
esting study to him, her great violet eyes, with their 
long, black lashes, a constrast to the marble-like 
whiteness of her cheek. She must have had an un- 
common beauty, this woman, he thought, before sin 
and illness came to marr it ; a dangerous beauty, a 


What Does He Say? !227 

strange mixture of the sensuous and intellectual, a 
pleasure loving nature, but weak morally. 

So the reader can see why Cyrus Alvin captured the 
heart and soul of Annette Lefarge with his teaching. 
Since that fatal night long ago she knew men only as 
deceivers, traitors, lovers of self, slaves to their pas- 
sions, seekers after all the allurements and devices 
which pander to and feed them. Love of woman was 
to them a thing apart, a pastime, when she ceased to 
amuse and gratify, she was flung aside for some 
fairer face. They would swear eternal fidelity, eternal 
love, one moment, only the next to betray with a 
Judas kiss. Former loves, old ties, old associations, 
were all lost sight of ; it was always the face and the 
body of woman with the men she had known. 

She had met, in the different cities of Europe, men 
of education, polished gentlemen of rank; she had 
seen them seated around the gaming tables in her 
own salon, as well as others, marked their faces 
flushed with wine and disfigured with jealous hate of 
the winners. She had seen English Lords and Earls, 
French Counts and foreign Ambassadors, rise from 
the midnight feast, totter home from their^ debauch, 
with mocking jibes upon their lips, only to grow 
drunk again, from the theft of a woman’s virtue. 
These were the men she had known. She herself was 
sin steeped, her soul was sin stained ; she had listened 
to the tempter’s voice, and blinded by an unlawful, 
unholy passion, she threw away all that a woman 
holds dear, home, husband and child. But in all her 
piad revels, her midnight feasts, whigh 9ften la?tec[ 


‘228 


In the Market Place. 


until the break of morn, she was true to the man who 
pleaded with her to fly with him. 

''It is late, madame ; I see the janitor is putting out 
the lights,’’ said Cyrus Alvin, "wait a moment until I 
slip on my overcoat, and I will accompany you to 
your home.” (Cyrus Alvin would go down into the 
gutter to lift a soul up out of the trough of sin.) As 
she led him along towards Eighth street, she made 
some apology about taking him to such a poor neigh- 
borhood, and a very poor place. "But my old negro 
maid will be waiting to receive me.” 

"Dear madame,” he replied," pardon me if I make 
the request to accompany you to-night to your very 
door, and when we reach there to expect you to ask 
me in. Look upon me as a physician, a surgeon, who 
has come across an interesting case, who has, as it 
were, taken his knife and probed deep into the sore, 
and must now apply the healing remedies.” 

She turned into the narrow alley which led to the 
rear of the old house. When she reached the stairs 
Aunt Louise stood at the head awaiting her. The 
old colored woman, perceiving she was accompanied 
by a gentleman, her dark face turned ashen. But as 
Cyrus Alvin came closer, following after Annette, 
and the dim light from the candle in the window fell 
upon his face, she surmised it was the minister she 
had heard her mistress speak of. Louise' ushered 
Cyrus in with all the courtesy of the old time negro, 
reared in the old aristocratic families of the South. 
She gave him a chair and placed an old willow rocker 
for her mistress. There had been no change made in 


229 


What Does He Say? 

the room, since the May evening the reader was first 
introduced to it, with the exception of the two chairs, 
which the old colored woman had bought at a second- 
hand store, and a little stove where a small coal fire 
burned. 

The emotions which rose up in Cyrus Alvin’s 
breast, when he entered the room, and beheld its 
extreme poverty, and its two strange occupants, mis- 
tress and maid, paled his cheek, and moistened his 
eyes. Being a Southern man himself, he knew just 
what social plane to place Annette upon, and of 
course the old black woman was a common thing in 
the South during slavery, and for some years after; 
but it was seldom any of the blacks were to be found 
so faithful under the trying circumstances of such 
extreme poverty. The old negress seated herself 
behind them, and with hands folded on her lap, her 
head bowed, she listened to her mistress relate the 
story of her life, from the day she married when nine- 
teen or twenty years old, up to this very evening. 
And with half closed eyes she watched the quick 
changing color of Cyrus Alvin’s face, that in the 
superabundance of her imagination, which belongs to 
the black race, she could liken it to no other than the 
face of Christ. It was twelve o’clock when Cyrus 
took leave of his new friends ; Annette did not follow 
him to the door, being exhausted after the trying 
ordeal of living over again, as it were, the old life, its 
loves and passions, and dissipations ; its sorrows and 
sufferings, its bitterness and hate. While Louise 
placed the candle in the window again and accom- 


2^0 In the Market Place. 

panied Cyrus out to the porch, Annette threw herself 
on the cot. 

‘'I shall make it my business to-morrow to find 
your mistress a more comfortable room, and in a 
better locality,’’ said Cyrus, as he stood at the head 
of the stairs. ‘‘Your mistress informed me she has 
no other means of support, but what you earn.” 

“No, sah, all de money an’ all de great riches hab 
gone ; afta Massa Count went away my Miss Annette 
she sole all her laces an’ jewells, an’ satins, an’ furs 
an’ velvets, an’ de money she got fo’ dem went to 
keep up de handsome apartments in Paris, waiten 
fo’ Massa Count to come back, but he nebber did. 
She know no mo’ about money an’ its use, sah, den 
a baby, bekase Ise recon she alway hab so much. 
She hab nebber felt its want befo’. She hab nobody 
now to ’pend on but me, and as long as dese ole bans 
am able to wok, and Ise ken gits it to do, she won’ 
stave, suah, sah.” 

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” said 
Cyrus, quoting the saying of our Lord, “you are a 
brave, noble woman ; you make my heart glad to see 
one of your race like you.” He held out his hand to 
her. As she placed hers in his he slipped a five- 
dollar note in it. “Buy some delicacies for your mis- 
tress, and try and keep warm and comfortable, it is 
very cold.” He bade her good night, went down the 
old rickety stairs, and out into the street. 

He walked down to Sixth street and stopped a mo- 
ment on the corner of Sixth street and the Avenue F. 
The night was intenselj^ cold, before him lay the Mar- 


23 1 


What Does He Say? 

ket Place, in deep shadow, and deserted by the 
crowd ; not a light to be seen, but in a few of the 
drinkings Booths, which stood to the Fifth street side 
now called Broadway. To his left the smaller and 
dingier brick buildings, that crowd together and clus- 
ter about M street. Here are many saloons, and 
the men kept going in and coming out, and the street 
was not without its women stragglers, for these 
streets and the lateness of the hour have their own 
peculiar frequenters. He strode down to Broadway 
and stood on the corner of Broadway and M street 
from the Market Place, where Annette Lefarge 
months before, took her stand in the shadow of the 
window, of the great House of F. N. & Co., to watch 
and to wait and peer into every man’s face who 
passed by. He stood out upon the pavement, where 
his eyes had a sweep of Broadway, clear to Pine 
street, its tall, whitish gray buildings looming up in 
the cold, bleak atmosphere of the night. The electric 
lights throwing long, inky-blue shadows across the 
snow-clad pavement. The men and women were 
more numerous here, even the bitter cold and the late- 
ness of midnight was no barrier to these birds of prey ; 
that awful sight to be met with in all large cities^ and 
which appalls the thinking woman, when she comes 
to discover these scrange phases of life and ask her- 
self, ''How can such things exist?” But they do 
exist, and no woman can take refuge behind the walls 
of her palatial home, her social position, and say, 
"Such conditions don’t concern me.” Ah, but they 
do, my d^ar sister, and soon or later they will reach 


In the Market Place. 


232 

you, and strike at some tender spot, and you will 
cover your face with your white jewelled hands and 
weep over the beloved son or the beloved daughter, 
whom you have married to some other woman's son, 
without looking into his private character or morals. 

‘‘What a conversion, another Mary Magdalene," 
he said to himself, baring his head to the biting frost, 
and gazing up to the deep purple heavens, brilliant 
with its millions of shining stars, “she told me that 
for a whole year she had had murder in her heart, 
that the man she has been searching for is Charles 

, an American, ^but known in London and 

Paris, for thirteen years, as the Count de Gas- 
con, and she his Countess. And that up to the night 
two weeks ago, when weary, worn and foot sore, she 
went into the Mission house and heard the singing 
and praying, and to-night when she heard me preach, 
that had she met him, no matter where or when, she 
would have killed him on sight. Oh, God, the 
Father, through thy Son, the Lord Christ," he 
prayed, “thou hast given me new-born to-night the 
soul of this woman. I give back again the prize to 
Thee, keep it I beseech Thee in Thy love and strength, 
for the span of her life is nearly run. Oh, gratifica- 
tion it is the death clutch of the human race, and this 
beautiful woman has been its greatest victim." He 
covered his head, looked fondly about the Market 
Place, his dream of a Christian Forum. He walked 
rapidly until he came to W avenue, where he took 
the cars for his home. 


CHAPTER II. 


HER WADDING DAY. 

‘What a beautiful letter it is/' said Gartha, hand- 
ing the boldly written pages to Mary, “how strange 
that it should come on this day, my ‘wedding day/ 
So many kind wishes and prayers for my future, yet 
dear, there is a ring of sadness in it; not that he 
speaks of his own sorrow, oh, no. Nelson is not that 
kind, besides he has the happy faculty of seeing 
things in their brightest aspect. And if they have a 
humorous side, he is sure to see it also, and present 
it in his own original way. Still, dear, I cannot help 
but feel that he is not over-joyous at my marriage 
with Arthur." 

She was seated beside the couch where Mary re- 
clined in her room ; it was early morning and nearing 
the close of May, the fairest month in all the fair 
year. And what can we say of it? Only that eye 
could behold its beauty, that mind can conceive of its 
hidden meaning, but that words would fail to paint 
nature in the dress she wore that day. The windows 
were open, and what streams of soft, liquid sunshine 
poured in ; the air was filled with the songs of birds, 
and laden with the perfume of wild flowers, which 

233 


^34 


In the Market Place. 


was wafted by the gentle winds, and fell about them 
like light, incense, and the melody of heaven. 

‘'What strange beings men are,’' returned Mary, 
after reading the letter, and handing it back to Gar- 
tha, “no matter how good or how many noble quali- 
ties they may possess, there is still a selfishness lurk- 
ing through it all. If they happen to have a strong 
friendship for a woman, especially if she is beautiful, 
they never like to lose her, nor feel that another man 
has more claim to her affections. And my brother is 
no exception to the rule.” 

“Nelson is quite an exception in this case, dear,” 
replied Gartha, softly, “and he has especially charged 
me to take care of you and be with you as much as 
possible after Arthur and myself are married. Now, 
dear, I want to assist in dressing you this morning, 
then you can lie here quietly, until we return from 
church ; Carl will then help you down to the sitting- 
room.” 

“Arminta can help me while you are all at church ; 
she is quite handy about it; you will have no more 
than time to make your own toilet,” she said, looking 
at Gartha with an expression in her face that told her 
there was no regret that she herself was not to be a 
bride. 

“It is just a whim of mine, Mary, dear, and I would 
like you to humor me in it.” And Gartha began to 
take from a drawer a dainty white wrapper and other 
articles of clothing. 

Mrs. Lawrie had been busy for weeks, preparing 
for Gartha’s marriage. Arminta flitted here and 


Her Wedding Day. 23^ 

there, as silent and mysterious as a ghost. All the 
rooms had been put in order by Gartha herself, and 
the studio, sitting-room and parlor were radiant with 
sunshine, blooming flowers and plants. 

''Wal, if it weren’t for the great consideration I 
have for Garthe, Fd wear them anyhow,” said Peter, 
who was sitting in his shirt-sleeves on the side of the 
bed, in his room, and gazing fondly down at his gar- 
den shoes, and thinking of the distress a newer and 
smaller pair would give him. ''If women want so 
etarnally vain,” he muttered, laying one hand in the 
other, "there’d be some comfort in livin’. Susan, 
she’s jist as bad as the rest of them ; she’s as proud as 
old Nick himself.” He looked down at his large feet, 
then at his barges of shoes. "If it weren’t for the 
great consideration I have for Garthe, I’d wear 
them anyhow, in spite of her; jist so, but I’d never 
hear the last about respect for myself and family, and 
other nonsense.” 

"Father, aren’t you dressed yet, it’s nearly nine 
o’clock, and the company will soon begin to arrive ?” 
said Mrs. Lawrie, breaking in on her husband’s 
reverie. 

"Wal, let that thar curiosity of a gal intertain them, 
she’ll be amusement enough for them, until we finish 
our toilet. Blame me, mother, if she ain’t an evil 
sperit.” 

"An evil spirit. Lord save us, Peter, what put that 
in your head?” exclaimed Mrs. Lawrie, looking at 
her husband in wonderment. 

"It’s not in my head at all. I can see if my eyes are 


236 


In the Market Place. 


a little weak, that she’s an evil spent, if ever there 
was one on this round globe,” returned Peter, com- 
mencing to strap his razor, and do what he would, 
and try as he may, he could not get the strange Ar- 
minta, who impressed him with being all that was 
impish and mysterious out of his thoughts. 

‘'I really believe, father, you are growing childish. 
I hoped when the spring came and you got out of 
your warm corner you would stop hatching strange 
notions,” said Mrs. Lawrie, bursting one of the but- 
tons of her dress, that was made a little too tight for 
the ample bosom, but it wouldn’t bear squeezing, so 
pop went the button. 

''Jist so, exactly, jist so,” responded Peter, busily 
strapping away at his razor, ''but if she ain’t the 
blamedest, funniest specimen of a gal I ever beheld, 
Susan; a parfect harlequin of the lower regions.” 
Here the razor stopped, the water trickled down his 
cheeks and one could hardly measure half an inch, 
between Peter’s ears and his mouth, so wide was the 
gap. 

"She is a splendid girl to work,” answered Mrs. 
Lawrie, adjusting her glasses, as she seated herself 
to sew on the button that would much rather be 
fastened where it could rise and fall, on her motherly 
bosom, than stowed away in a dark pocket of her 
work-basket. "Besides she is quite attentive to Mary, 
and very handy about waiting upon her.” 

"She’s a sperit, Susan, as sure as you live she’s a 
sperit. I never go into the sitting-room to read my 
paper, and chance to look up suddenly but I find her 


Her Wedding Day. 1237 

behind my chair, or slipping around the room, as 
noiseless as a ghost, an’ she’ll disappear as myste- 
riously as she appeared.” 

“It’s a notion of yours, Peter, she has a quiet way 
of going about the house, which I like, and perhaps 
she comes upon you unexpectedly,” replied Mrs. 
Lawrie, who by this time had finished her dressing. 
As she stepped to go to the bureau glass to tie on her 
bonnet, she accidentally stumbled over her husband’s 
garden shoes ; she instantly stooped down, picked 
them up, and placed them in her closet, and turned 
the key in the lock, took the key out and dropped it 
into her dress pocket, tied her bonnet strings, and left 
the room. Peter, when through shaving, (for Peter 
carried his old-fashioned ideas so far as to shave him- 
self,) and before making up his mind to renounce his 
garden shoes, went to the bedside to take a farewell 
look at them, and to his astonishment found them 
gone. He tried the door of his wife’s closet, and 
found it locked. 

'“Wal,” he exclaimed, gazing down at his slippers 
and wincing as he thought of his corns and bunions, 
“if she hasn’t hid them ; she never did have any con- 
fidence in me. Yes, jist so, blame me, if it weren’t 
for Garthe, I’d break the lock and wear them in spite 
of her.” 

“Mother, dear, how lovely you look,” said Mary, 
as Mrs. Lawrie entered her daughter’s room. “How 
do you like my dress, my child ?” she asked, standing 
over the couch with such benign tenderness in her 
face ; she would not for worlds by a word, chase away 


238 In the Market Place. 

the bright smile that greeted her when she entered 
the door. And as she spoke one could detect now 
and then in the intonations of the deep, rich voice, 
that a sadness, we might say a great sorrow, lay hid- 
den under her calm, resigned manner. 

‘‘Mother, dear, where did you get that lovely 
dress? I do not recollect ever seeing you wear it 
before ; did you have it made new for Gartha’s wed- 
ding, or did you fish it up from the depths of those 
large closet drawers of yours? Oh, you’re a sly 
mother,” said Mary, with a loving smile. 

“My child, I had this dress before you were born ; 
you see, I had it made over for the wedding.” 

It was a pearl gray silk trimmed at the neck and 
wrists, with some rare old point lace, which she had 
saved with other articles of apparel, for the daughter 
who was slowly passing away to that country where 
we are clothed in raiment not made by hands. Her 
bonnet was a delicate shade of lavender with gloves 
to match ; these, with a white India crape shawl, worn 
over her shoulders, was another souvenir of her girl- 
hood. She looked a dignified and elegant woman. 

“And here is father ; how kind of you both to think 
of me before going to the church,” and Mary turned 
her head aside, her whole weak body shaking with 
suppressed laughter, as her father, tall and gaunt, 
stood beside his wife the picture of despair, in his 
new suit of broadcloth, and contemplating his new 
silk hat, which he held out at arm’s length, so that his 
daughter could have a full view of it. 

“Wal, Mary, I don’t mind dressing up, but your 


Her Wedding Day. 239 

mother is so etarnally vain, Christianity and all, she’s 
as proud as the old Nick himself, and that’s what 
sunk him, pride. And if it weren’t for your’s and Gar- 
the’s sake. I’d have broken the lock and worn them 
in spite of her.” 

Peter gazed down at his new shoes in a most dole- 
ful way. Mrs. Lawrie had moved to the other side of 
the room, and stood before a window with her back 
to her husband, her mouth working, her ample 
bosom shaking, until the tears rolled down her 
cheeks. 

''I am so glad to see you in your best clothes, 
father. Gartha, I am sure, will be delighted to think 
you had such a lovely outfit made for her wedding.” 
This made Peter forget his misery, and his obstinacy, 
for Peter was as obstinate as a mule, especially with 
his wife, and wedded to his ways. 

‘‘Wal, if it pleases you, my daughter, to see me 
dressed in good clothes ; if I have made you happier 
by wearing them,” he said, laying his hat on a chair 
that stood near her couch, and reaching over his long 
bony hand, he took hers between his two large palms, 
(there was a sort of pathos in his awkwardness), ‘T’m 
compensated and if in the future there is anything 
that I can do to please you, let mother know, an’ I’ll 
do it as well as I know how.” Peter’s voice took a 
softness that sounded even strange to himself, as he 
laid his daughter’s hand back on the coverlet, as care- 
fully as if he thought any jar might break it. 

‘‘You always have made me happy, you dear old 
father, and I am sure you have made mother su- 


(240 


In the Market Place. 


premely happy this morning, and knowing this, it 
should make you feel very comfortable.” 

‘'Come, Peter, it is time we were going,” said Mrs. 
Lawrie, turning around and wiping her tears from 
her eyes, not of laughter now, but of sadness. 

A few seconds after Mrs. Lawrie and Peter left 
their daughter's room, Gartha entered it arrayed in 
her bridal robes. “Oh, how beautiful you look, my 
Gartha ; you resemble some white-robed angel of the 
dawn. What would Carrie Van Court say if she 
could see you now? Poor Carrie,” and Mary sighed. 

“The dear child,” said Gartha, kneeling beside the 
couch, “I suppose I would lead her fancy a dance, if 
she were here this morning.” 

“You would be queen of the apple blossoms, to her, 
they are so suggestive of purity,” said Mary, laying 
her hand in Gartha's. 

“Oh, my Mary, if you say these things there is dan- 
ger of making me vain. I am but a poor, weak 
woman, so very weak, dear, that I fear the life which 
is now opening up to me, may be too luxurious, it 
may choke and crowd out my aspitations for the 
work I feel has been laid out for me to do. Still I 
am very happy, dear, it is my wedding day. You and 
I have so often spoken of our love, that you well 
know the depth and strength of mine for Arthur ; yet, 
dear, I would feel a thousand times more blessed, if 
I could bring you back to health, so that you might 
live for your father and mother, and Carl.” Gartha 
turned her face away, and laid her arm under the 
dear head. 


241 


Her Wedding Day. 

^^All that has passed for me, the battle has been 
fought and won, and a sweet peace, such as this world 
cannot give is mine. I am now happy in the thought, 
that I have been spared to see this day, your wedding 
day. So bright that not a speck must be seen on its 
clear sky, not a passing shadow mar the perfection 
of its loveliness.’’ Gartha bent over and kissed her, 
then rose and left the room. 

Gartha found Arthur awaiting her in the lower hall. 
He held out both hands ao he advanced to meet her. 
It was then, and only then, that she ever remembered 
seeing his eyes rest upon her with great tenderness, 
admiration and love. Her dress was a white princess 
robe of soft India silk, and seemed to be moulded to 
her tall, lithe figure, so like a willow in its subtile 
grace. It was made with a plait that began at the 
back of the neck, and swept off in long shimmering 
folds to the ground, forming a train, that looked like 
the foam of sea waves. There wa^ lace at her throat, 
lace at the wrists of the closely fitting sleeves, and 
orange blossoms never crowned a fairer brow, and 
her veil which floated about her like a cloud of white 
haze, never shaded eyes where the light of the soul 
shone forth more radiantly. 

‘"Come,” she said, taking Arthur’s arm, ‘'we have 
a few moments to spare ; let us go to the back of the 
house ; I long to take one more look at the landscape 
before we are married.” 

Never was nature in a more lovely mood. Beau- 
tiful in stretches of wavy curves, lay the undulating 
meadows, like a rolling sea of greenish gold ; the hills 
16 


In the Market Place. 


242 

in their soft verdure rising, falling, and sloping away 
in an indescribable violet haze. Tall trees illumined 
by the sun, and glistening against a sky dotted with 
clouds of silvery fleece, floating and melting into its 
mellow azure blue. Near them lay the orchard, white 
and redolent in their blossoming fruit; and where 
they stood, one tree shed its pure scented bud-leaves 
at their feet. At their back the bottom lands swept 
off to the shining river, and the road which wound 
from the gate along its bank was perfumed with 
daisies, daffodils and violets. Gartha stood in the 
midst of all this creative life, this expanding bud and 
bloom, like some white robed Seraphim, the sunlight 
falling about her, falling upon them both. But those 
far-seeing eyes of hers, as they gaze on the scene, 
get no glimpse of the future, nor of the shadows 
which cross the path she is now going to take. She 
saw before her only nature’s voluminous book, whose 
pages she read, and felt more than the beauty of 
their subtle meaning and lessons. 

Arthur Lowell stood beside her, elegant in his 
attire, Apollo-like in his bearing, his liquid brown 
eyes resting tenderly upon her. But did he see the 
things that she did; did his eyes drink in all the 
charm and delight of the glorious spring morning, 
with its fragrant breath fanning their cheek, the air 
filled with the songs of birds, and bright with the 
hues of thousands of flowers ? Did his soul go out in 
response to that living spiritual essence, that some- 
thing unspeakable, which she felt, yet could find no 
words to define? No, Arthur Lowell neither saw. 


Her Wedding Day. 243 

understood nor felt these things, the landscape was 
fair and beautiful to him, in its outward sense, so was 
his bride, fairer at that moment to him than any 
other being, or thing on earth. Her beauty pleased 
and charmed him, and he loved her as much as he was 
capable of loving any woman. Oh, love, sweet, holy 
love, softening influence of our days, rare treasure of 
our youth, but, alas, how you mock us, as the autumn 
of our lives draws near; you gather up your pearls, 
pearls that you have strewn at our feet, as plentiful 
as the dew on June roses, then you fly away, and 
leave us to starve; for you there is only youth and 
spring. 

A little later Arthur Lowell and Gartha Rowland 
stood before the altar of the small chapel on the hill, 
where a select party of friends had been invited, and 
this old church was where she herself had requested 
her marriage to take place. Hand in hand they stood, 
plighting their vows before God, the sunbeams 
streaming and glinting through the stained glass 
windows, wrapping them in a gold embroidered 
mantle. There was no music but that which came 
from the songs of the birds outside, the birds she 
loved so well. And Carl on hearing her favorite, the 
brown thrushes silvery warbling, looked about the 
pew as if for something, it was his flute. And as the 
minister, a low-voiced man of God, spoke the words, 
''Until death do us part, according to God's holy 
ordinance," Gartha's hand trembled in Arthur's and 
there passed over her whole body a sensation as if 
her blood was freezing to ice; it was but momen- 


244 


In the Market Place. 


tarily, however. Hand in hand they left the church, 
followed by their friends. As the carriages in which 
the bridal party rode came in sight of Tanglewood, 
it seemed to Gartha that she had never remembered 
seeing it when it appeared to her so heavenly a spot. 
The south side of the old house was bathed in a 
flood of sunshine, while the front and north side 
nestled in the cool shade of its great trees. The gay 
morning glories climbed up about its porches, its 
stately oaks and pines cast slanting, dark shadows on 
the velvet green sward, sprinkled with golden butter- 
cups. 

The company assembled on the front porches and 
some took seats under the trees ; Gartha stood on 
the porch beside her bridesmaid, a pale, intellectual 
girl, and Gartha thought as she caught a glimpse of 
Peter, who was standing near his wife, that she had 
never seen him when he presented such a good ap- 
pearance. Indeed he looked quite distinguished in 
his black suit, his white vest, and white hair, and 
rose nearly a head over all the men present ; besides 
being as straight as an Indian. Carl had also donned 
a new black suit made for the occasion, the tailor 
having been given strict orders to make it loose and 
comfortable. Arthur had invited some of his inti- 
mate gentlemen friends, and a few of the professors 
from the Academy and University. Gartha had in- 
vited some of her young friends, and Mrs. Lawrie 
some of her old ones. After a little while Gartha led 
Arthur up stairs to Mary's room; they found Carl 
there and Mary seated in her chair already dressed. 


Her Wedding Day. 245 

She held out both arms to Gartha and greeted Arthur 
as he entered with a smile that lingered for weeks 
after in Gartha’s memory. Gartha knelt down beside 
her and as she took the long, white fingers in hers 
she kissed her many times on cheek and brow. After 
a few moments she went with them down to the 
sitting-room, where Arminta had her own easy chair, 
arranged with pillows and soft cushion to receive 
her. Carl seated himself beside her, and her father, 
watching his opportunity, angled through the com- 
pany, which had all gathered into the house for re- 
freshments, captured a chair and seated himself on 
the other side, opposite Carl. All the friends were 
untiring in their attentions to her ; they had heard of 
her great musical talent, her long engagement to 
Mr. Goetz, and her patient, gentle nature, and said 
among themselves : ^'What a pity that one so young 
and gifted should be fast fading away.’’ 

Arthur’s groomsman, a handsome young artist, 
with all the gush and enthusiasm of one fresh from 
Paris, bent over her chair to tell her he had met Nel- 
son, her brother, in Paris, several times before he left 
Europe for his own country. He made himself quite 
interesting by relating some anecdote of Nelson. 
“You have no idea how it improves an artist to go to 
Paris,” he said, sipping his coffee. 

“Nelson is one of the young men who go abroad 
to see what other men have done, and are doing, but 
have too much originality to become simply an imi- 
tator,” said Gartha, who happened to be standing at 
Mary’s left. 


246 In the Market Place. 

“Oh, ah, — yes, really, Mrs. — Mrs. Lowell, but you 
know we are so apt to get swamped by greater 
minds. The young artist bowed, took another sip of 
coffee, and made way for two old ladies that came to 
say to Mary they were pleased to see her down stairs. 

“Father, what amuses you so much?” asked Mary, 
who observed Peter's restlessness, his squirming 
about in his chair, and every once in a while crossing 
and recrossing one leg over the other. 

“Wal, Mary,” he said, bending low and placing his 
face close to hers, “do you see anything that strikes 
you as being remarkably funny? I know if Nelson 
war here and you war like your old strong self, thar'd 
be no end to the goin's on, the sharp an' witty sayin's, 
between yourself and him ; all at the expense of that 
gal. For if she ain't the blamedest, funniest, curiosity 
of a gal, I ever beheld.” The water ran from Peter's 
eyes, and trickled down his cheeks, and his mouth — 
well there is no knowing where it would have 
stretched to if his ears had not interposed. And all 
this was caused by Arminta who was passing coffee 
to the guests; flitting in and out with creams, ices 
and cakes, as softly and silently as a mouse, but as 
quick as a cat, for she seemed to be at every one's 
side at the same time, and outdid the professional 
colored young man as a waiter. But Arminta was 
certainly, as Peter termed her, a curiosity, and would 
have attracted any one's attention, who had the gift 
of observing character, and a touch of the humorous, 
as Peter and his children possessed to a great degree. 
Arminta's hair was jet black, and when in its natural 


Her Wedding Day. 247 

state looked as if it was nibbled by rats, it was so dry 
and chippy, but of course Arminta wanted to look as 
nice as possible on Gartha's wedding day, and she 
put an extra touch to her bang by frizzing it. So it 
fell over her black brows in short, frowzy curls, from 
which her small bead-like eyes peered out ; the rest 
of her face resembling a little russet apple. But Ar- 
minta was as neat as a new blue calico dress, long 
white apron, white collar and a red bow of ribbon in 
the braid of her hair could make her. 

It was late in the afternoon when Gartha and her 
husband left Tanglewood for their own cottage. As 
they stood in its parlor, furnished in blue and gold, 
the soft scented breeze stealing through the lace cur- 
tains, she said, laying her lovely head on his shoul- 
der : 

^^Oh, my husband, is this beautiful home to be 
mine? Is this why you wished me not to come here 
until our wedding day ? Oh, dear, I shall be so happy 
here ; happy in the morning when going to your work 
the work that is so sweet to the worker, that he may 
leave behind him the fruits of his labor. Thrice 
happy when you return at even-tide, oh, so happy in 
your presence, blest in your home, a woman’s king- 
dom.” 

Oh, fate, oh, destiny, who of us can turn aside 
from it? Prate as we may, it is inevitable. He took 
her hand in his and they went out to the front piazza 
and stood a moment, with their faces turned towards 
Tanglewood. Peacefully it nestled among the trees, 
the oaks and pines, softly swaying in the reflected 


248 


In the Market Place. 


light of great sweeps of illumined clouds, which gath- 
ered towards the west, and fell around and about 
them like a shower of golden mist. Gartha heard the 
brown thrush’s liquid notes, and the strains of Carl’s 
flute were wafted to her ear. She turned her gaze 
and pointed towards the little church, where that 
morning she was made a wife ; long, slanting sun rays 
fell across its vine-covered sides, tingeing the leaves 
to a burnished green, and gilding its steeple. ‘‘There 
is a subject for a sketch,” she said, and again the 
solemn words rang in her ear, “Until death do us 
part, according to God’s holy ordinance.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE PEACE that PASSETH AEE UNDERSTANDING. 

Aeter Gartha’s marriage Mary failed rapidly, the 
day of the wedding was the last time she had been 
down stairs. The family physician had consulted 
with other family physicians, and the verdict was 
nothing could be done to save her. The disease was 
a slow consumption of the liver, a failing of all the 
digestive organs to do their proper work; therefore 
no assimilation of food; and most all nutrition had 
ceased. Gartha was seldom absent from her bedside. 
After Arthur left in the morning, she would take her 
sewing, embroidery, or a book, and go to Tangle- 
wood for the day; returning to her own home to- 
v^ards evening, before Arthur came to dinner. After 
dinner she and her husband would visit the cottage 
together, where they generally found Carl seated at 
the sick girl’s bed. Carl would give his seat to Gar- 
tha, go down stairs to the front porch, where he and 
Arthur would enjoy a quiet smoke, while they con- 
versed of different things ; the failures, successes, and 
ups and downs of life. Every afternoon since Nel- 
son’s departure found Carl at the cottage ; sometimes 
he would bring his work in the morning and remain 
all day; as he had Nelson’s studio all to himself. 


249 


In the Market Place. 


150 

This gave the lovers a chance to be much together 
in the last three months before Mary took to her bed. 
She would take her old place on the lounge and watch 
Carl paint, which was her custom with her brother; 
often suggesting little improvements in the arrange- 
ment of drapery, or slight touches here and there, 
which would make a vast difference for the best, in 
the expression of a feature, or the whole face. These 
were happy days, to both, days that Carl lived over 
and over again, when the gentle girl had been laid 
to rest. They were days that were the solace of his 
lonely after years. These days come to most of us 
at some period of our lives; their memory clings to 
us, as the tender green moss does to the bark of the 
oak; they brighten the hours of our autumn, which 
are often clouded with the shadows of coming winter. 

One morning, it was in the early spring, before 
Gartha^s marriage, the blue-bird's sweet note and 
robin's song had been heard in the trees, the air was 
soft and warm, and filled with the fragrance of open- 
ing bud and leaf. Mary reclined on her couch in the 
studio, Carl, who was at work on the portrait of a 
lady, rose and laid aside his palette and brushes and 
seated himself at her side. ‘‘Poor hand," he said, 
taking the long wasted fingers in his, “but I think 
you are better, dear, the doctor says this last medi- 
cine is helping you." She turned to him, and the 
smile that beamed from her eyes shone with a spir- 
itual radiance; always conscious of her plainness, 
there was something of late in the expression of her 
face and especially at this moment which made it 


Peace That Passeth All Understanding, a 51 

appear beautiful to him. ‘'You have not forgotten, 
dear, that night last June,^’ she said, “ you remember, 
you spoke of its wonderful loveliness. It was a night, 
dear, when the heavens seemed to come down to the 
earth, and the earth go up to the heavens; a night 
full of the splendor of the moon, full of color, of 
melody, of blooming life, light, joy and love. You 
remember the vows we plighted then, Carl dear ; that 
if anything should happen to prevent us from being 
united on earth, that we were still bound together for 
all time and eternity.’’ 

'“Oh, my life, my love, you are mine for all time 
and eternity,” he said, with bowed head. 

! “I have long known, dear Carl, — ” she hesitated, 
seeing that her words gave him pain, “that dear as 
we are to each other, and as much as I love you, 
Carl, I cannot be your earthly bride, but in spirit I 
shall ever be with you, ever beside you, leading you 
upward and onward, until your time comes to follow 
me. And up there, dear, in the life beyond, it will be 
heart to heart, and soul to soul.” 

“My love, my fond and gentle Mary, my bride, my 
wife,” he said, folding her to his breast, for they had 
both risen, “Don’t you think a change would help 
you ? The spring is here and the warm days will soon 
be upon us, to go east might renew your strength. 
I have a friend of my mother’s a distant cousin living 
on the Hudson river; she is my god-mother, and a 
maiden lady of means. She has a fine place there, 
we could marry and go to her home for the summer. 
I know she would welcome us. I used to be a great 


' 2^2 


In the Market Place. 


favorite with her when a boy and I have had many 
letters from her asking me to come and spend 
months with her, which I have never taken advan- 
tage of/’ 

''Oh, darling,” she said, with eye-lids half closed, 
her face pale, "I love you, but there is no place where 
I can be more comfortable than home here with 
mother. Oh, Carl, I would have you lay aside any 
hope that might deceive you, for every day I find 
myself drawing nearer to the land where there is no 
death nor decay.” 

"Then, you are happy in leaving me?” he said, in 
a low whisper. 

"No, dear, I would be so happy to remain with 
you, for it would make you happier, and your life 
more complete ; but since it cannot be, darling, we 
must look to an eternal union beyond. You will 
comfort mother and father, when I am gone ; and it 
must make no difference in your coming and going 
here; let this be your home as it is now. No, dear, 
I am not unhappy in going to Him who has called 
me ; who has sent His messengers at night, to whis- 
per holy things to me ; words of peace, the peace that 
passeth all understanding; messengers pointing up- 
ward, onward, and beyond, until I reach the gate, 
which stands wide open to receive me.” Her head 
lay on his shoulders, his lips pressed hers, he held her 
close to his deep, heaving breast, held her long and 
tenderly, held her until she seemed to gather strength 
from his warmth and vitality. 

When Mary took to her bed, and her mother found 


Peace That Passeth All Understanding. 253 

she refused all solid food as it gave her great pain to 
touch it, and she grew weaker every day, she knew 
then there was no hope of her daughter’s recovery. 
Only once did she give way to the deep grief that was 
gnawing at her heart strings. One morning she had 
prepared some chicken broth and a few oysters ; she 
had wiped the oysters perfectly dry, dipped them in 
cracker rolled as fine almost as flour, and browned 
them in a hot pan with the least sign of butter, and 
carried the oysters and soup on a silver salver up to 
Mary, who had not touched solid food of any kind 
for three days, excepting the tablespoonful of sherry, 
varied now :.nd then with one of beef tea. “I would 
like you to eat one of these oysters, Mary, dear, if 
it is only one, Mary, they are very palatable, not a 
bit rich, and so easy to digest. And a little of the 
soup, Mary, just to please me, Mary, dear.” 

‘'You good mother, you dear mamsy, I would eat 
a whole can full to please you, if I could,” said Mary, 
picking up one of the oysters on her fork, and put- 
ting it to her lips. Her mother kept urging her to 
take a few spoonfuls of the soup, but it was of no 
use, Mary shook her head and looked appealingly at 
her mother. 

Peter happened to be in the sitting-room when his 
wife passed through with the salver to the dining- 
room, and for the first time in many years he saw 
tears coursing down his wife’s cheeks. She never 
turned her head towards where he was seated, but 
went on and laid the salver on the dining-room table. 
“Wal,” he thought, when she did not return, “this 


In the Market Place. 


254 

will be the hardest blow of all to her, and to Peter it 
will not be easy, — yes, exactly jist so, — yes, the hard- 
est blow of all,'' he said, wiping the tears that coursed 
down his wrinkled cheeks. 

Why was it that Peter observed these tears of his 
wife now, more than when his other children closed 
their eyes to the light of this world, to awaken in the 
light of some other sphere? Was it because he 
thought more of this youngest and only remaining 
daughter? She had touched a deep, tender spot in 
his heart, the key-note to his better self. He was a 
selfish man given to thinking of himself, to mourning 
over his pains, aches and failures. Conscious to a 
certain extent of his own drawbacks, and that his 
peculiarities which were part of his strength, were at 
the same time a hindrance to the things he wished 
to accomplish. Or would he by taking himself to 
task try to correct one of them, as he was wedded to 
his ways, and to indulge them at times, was a luxury. 
He felt keenly the death of his other four children, 
and he did the best he knew for his family; but so 
long as things went easy, with little anxiety on his 
part, with no breaks in the regularity of his daily life, 
and like most men of his kind, so long as the ma- 
chinery of his household was kept well oiled, what 
else was there to do? For ever forty years his wife 
had ministered to his creature comforts, and in all 
that time he had never shown her any of those little 
attentions and considerations which smooth the 
rough edges of a humdrum existence, which neces- 
sarily comes from the care and responsibility of a 


Peace That Passeth All Understanding. 255 

large family. His wife had borne her aches, pains 
and burdens, apart from him, and if he had any sym- 
pathy with her he had a poor way of showing it. He 
sat in his chair over an hour, which was something 
unusual for him to do of a summer morning, for 
Peter was no idler; then he rose and went to his 
wife’s room, opened the door softly and looked in. 
She was kneeling by the bed, her head bowed in 
prayer, he closed the door, as softly as he had opened 
it, went out to the garden to hoe his beets and pota- 
toes. There was something heroic and sublime in the 
humility of that kneeling mother, over whose head 
nearly sixty years had spent their course. Mother of 
sons and daughters, that had one by one been called 
to the other side of the great river of eternity; and 
now in her old age, this best beloved of all, this gifted 
girl, was fast passing away; how she cried in the 
anguish of her heart, ‘‘Not mine, but Thine will be 
done. For Thou doest all things well.” 

Gartha had written to Nelson of his sister’s ex- 
pected death; he had been for some months cog- 
nizant of her extremely delicate health, as it was 
often the theme of Gartha’s letters. His mother had 
also written him, telling him of his sister’s wish that 
he might be with her before the final parting. “She 
may linger on a month or two, and she may pass 
away in a few days ; if you think you can reach home 
in time come immediately.” Nelson had come from 
Berlin to Paris the evening before the word came, 
intending to while away a month or so there before 
going to London, where he expected to remain dur- 


256 


In the Market Place. 


ing the winter. On receipt of his mother’s letter, he 
set sail for home. 

One evening, a week before Mary’s death, Gartha 
was seated by her bedside, the lamp burned low on a 
small stand back of the bed; Carl had left her side 
but a few moments before, and had gone out to the 
porch ; the last two weeks he had given up work, and 
night and day watched by her couch, until relieved 
by her mother or Gartha.” 

‘‘How kind of you, dear,” she said, reaching out 
her hand to Gartha. “I cannot tell you how happy 
your presence makes me, and how restful I feel when 
you are sitting near me. I am very selfish, am I 
not?” 

“You are far from being selfish; I am proud and 
overjoyed to know that my presence adds comfort 
and rest to the few short days you are to be with us,” 
replied Gartha, pressing the white fingers that laid on 
the coverlet. 

“How often and often, in the past we have spoken 
and speculated on things spiritual,” continued Mary, 
speaking low, “but what was dim and vague to me 
then is now as clear as the noon-day sun. The mist 
has dispersed, the veil has been lifted a moment, so 
that now and then I get a glimpse of the land of the 
blessed, which many think so far away, when it is 
right around us. It is only my body that lies here, 
my spirit roams at will. Sometimes I am down stairs 
with mother, — dear mother, — then with father in the 
garden, — then again I am sitting at the piano with 
Carl at my side, playing our favorite airs, from the 


Peace That Passeth All Understanding. 257 

operas and symphonies. And what would have taken 
months of practice when in my health, I can read now 
at a glance. How my fingers fly over the keys, how 
my soul thrills with their new meaning and beauty. 
Then sometimes I am soaring with the birds in the 
blue ether, flying up, up, and off, off, into space ; and, 
oh, Gartha, if I could then pen my thoughts and the 
things I feel and see, what a book they would make. 
Then at times I am lying under the trees, and what 
hymns they sing to me, as the warm winds play softly 
through their leaves and gently sway their branches ; 
and oh, what poems I read in the weird soughing of 
the pines. Then like a sweet interlude comes the 
rippling notes from the little throat we both love so 
well, the brown thrush. And often I see a face rise 
before me, oh, my Gartha, what can I say of it, dear — 
words are too feeble to convey any idea of the beauty 
of His countenance, so radiant, so tender and loving. 
And He beckons me to follow Him upward and on- 
ward and beyond. Yes, dear, it is only the body that 
lies here.^' She sighed, and crossed her hands over 
her bosom. 

‘'Only the body,’’ said Gartha, whose clear vision 
beheld and felt all her friend had spoken of, “but tell 
me, dear, when you pass to the country where only 
the holy dwell, if you are permitted to return, will 
you come to me, come at morn, at noon, and when I 
shall most miss you, at sunset, and the twilight glow 
of evening. Oh, my friend, my sister, there may 
come a time when I shall long to feel your presence, 
when my eyes shall try to pierce the veil, which hides 
17 


In the Market Place. 


1258 

spirit from matter; and I will stretch out my arms 
and cry, ‘'Oh, for a cool breath, for a touch, a sign, 
that I may know you are near me. I am very happy 
now, dear, in Arthur’s love, but that time may come.” 
Gartha rose and moistened the invalid’s lips with a 
spoonful of wine; Carl then came in and took Gar- 
tha’s place at her bedside. 

Gartha, on going down stairs, found her husband 
and Mrs. Lawrie on the porch ; Peter had drawn his 
chair to the far end, out of the way of the light which 
came from the hall lamp, and seated himself in the 
shadow of a corner. He looked so woe-begone and 
so forsaken that Gartha went to him and laid her 
hand caressingly on his shoulder. 

“Wal, blame me, Garthe, if I didn’t think you war 
that evil sperit out thar, you came upon me so sud- 
denly,” he said, somewhat startled at her appearance. 
“I suppose you’ve jist came from the room above. 
I needn’t ask any questions; I know she’s passing 
away, Garthe, an’ in a little while she’ll be gone, gone 
from mother an’ me an’ the old home. Yes, exactly 
jist so,” and Peter tried to choke down something 
that had risen in his throat. “But she seemed very 
comfortable a while ago when I war up thar; but, 
Garthe, it almost broke my heart, the way she looked 
at me, when I asked her if thar was anything she 
could think of that I could do to please her. An’ 
Garthe, I was never so worked up in all my life, as 
when she smiled an’ said, “No, dear father, nothing 
now; an’ I should like you to bear in mind, after I’m 


Peace That Passeth All Understanding. 1259 

gone, that I never remember the time when you 
didn't do everything to please me." 

''But I haven't, Garthe," here Peter nearly choked 
with the lump that rose up in his throat. ‘‘I think if 
I'd taken a little more notice of her, an' the boy 
across the water, — if I had a little more, wal I sup- 
pose you'd call it appreciation of their talents, — if 
I'd made a little more effort to help them along. I'd 
have liked it better now, Garthe; I meant to have 
done it. I wanted them to be good children, an' 
grow up to be good men an' women, an' I thought 
all the other things was foolishness an' vanity. Wal, 
Garthe, I've always been such a blunderer, besides an 
old man set in his habits, an' wedded to his ways, 
can't keep pace with the smart young folks of the 
present." 

‘'I am afraid, Mr. Lawrie, you take these things 
too much at heart," said Gartha. 

A lovely June twilight had faded and deepened into 
just such a night as the spring before when Carl and 
Mary sat on the front porch plighting their vows. 
Through the windows of the room streamed the pale 
light of the moon, a fit semblance of the spirit of the 
dying girl. Her mother stands beside her bed, with 
bowed head ; Peter stands at the foot dressed in his 
best suit, the one he wore at Gartha's wedding; he 
had put it on every morning for three days, also his 
best shoes, and when the hour came to climb to her 
room, to pay her a visit he carried his new high hat 
in his hand, (so the reader may guess what tortures 


26 o 


In the Market Place. 


he underwent to please this beloved daughter). Carl 
leans against the window, with head bowed on his 
chest, he is very pale, and every little while his eyes 
wander about in search of something, but finding no 
outlet for his feelings his broad chest heaves and 
great sighs escape with each long breath, while he 
runs his hands again and again through his bristling 
hair. Gartha and Nelson stand to one side. Nelson 
has improved much since his absence; he is full of 
grief at the coming loss of his sister, the companion 
of his childhood, the sharer of his troubles, hopes 
and aspirations, and the lonely days that must follow. 
The dying girl opens her eyes, she asks for Carl, he 
bends low to catch her words: '‘Your flute, dear, 
play me one last song, 'Nearer, My God, to Thee,' 
but first raise me up, place your arm under my head." 
Her head rests on his shoulder. "For all time and 
eternity," she whispered. 

"For all time and eternity, my life, my love, my 
Mary, my wife." 

He lays her head back on the pillow. They bring 
his flute, his face has the whiteness of marble, as he 
holds the instrument tremblingly to his lips. Then 
faintly, faintly, like the rippling of some far-off rivulet 
winding its way through dewy banks, decked with the 
white and purple hyacinth, sweetly, sweetly, like the 
breath of a holy prayer. Then higher, and higher, it 
ascends, then lower, lower, Nearer my God to Thee, 
nearer to Thee, softly, softly dies away on the air. 

Thus did Mary pass to the other shore, thus was 


Peace That Passeth All Understanding a6i 

her spirit wafted nearer, nearer to Him who gave it. 
Thus in the bright morning they laid her to sleep in 
the warm earth ; never in life were the calm, still fea- 
tures so beautiful as now with the peace that passeth 
all understanding. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THD GATHERING OE A DARK CTOUD. 

It is a year and a half since Mary Lawrie was laid 
to rest under the cedars in the little cemetery on the 
hill. After her daughter’s death, Mrs. Lawrie took 
up her daily routine of household cares and duties ; 
she had been a busy woman all her life, and idleness 
to her meant utter demoralization; to give up and 
nurse her grief, would have been to have taken to 
her bed and died. She had her husband and her son 
to live for still, and often the old thought would in- 
trude itself upon her, and more than ever since Mary 
had been laid away ; the thought which used to haunt 
her, before the professor began to come to Tangle- 
wood. That if the fates had been more kind she 
might have had Gartha for a daughter-in-law. In the 
year and a half past, her face has lost none of its 
old time sweetness, but added to it is an expression 
of resigned sadness, and her head is crowned with 
a halo of hair as white as snow drifts. Yet when 
Nelson gets on one of his strings, which he often 
does, his flashes of wit come thick and fast, '‘smart 
sayins,” as Peter termed them, she looks over her 
spectacles, with the same merry twinkle in her brown, 
262 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud.- 263 

eyes, as in former days, before the last great sorrow 
fell to her. 

Arminta disappeared as mysteriously as she came, 
but not without robbing Mrs. Lawrie of all her 
daughter’s clothing, and the contents of her large 
linen closet, which was packed with the finest of bed 
and table linen ; nor could the police ever find tale or 
tidings of her. 

Peter plods on in the old way ; he is always busy in 
his garden, hoeing and caring for his vegetables, cut- 
ting and pruning his fruit-trees and fruit. His old 
garden shoes and hat, which were laid aside to please 
the beloved daughter, as she took leave of him, to 
wing herself off with the angels, were never put on 
again ; he wears a large brimmed straw one now, that 
protects his head from the sun. The change which 
took place in Peter, with Mary’s death, has steadily 
improved with the year and a half that has past , he is 
very thoughtful of his wife’s comfort, and has grown 
more comfortable himself; has even taken to smok- 
ing a pipe. There were a few months after Mary 
died that he took little or no interest in any of his 
former pursuits, he dressed himself every morning in 
his black broadcloth suit, and wandered aimlessly 
about the house and grounds with his hat in his hand, 
and walking for hours in the garden; then he would 
come back to the cottage exhausted, and throw him- 
self into a chair, and try to read his paper. One 
morning his wife woke up and found him gone from 
her side, she rose quickly and went to her bed-room 


264 


In the Market Place. 


window, looked out, and to her surprise and relief, 
saw him dressed in his old garden clothes and hard 
at work. She hastened to Nelson’s room and awoke 
him, told him that a great weight had been lifted from 
her mind, that his father had gone back to his work, 
which was a good sign, and that he was at that mo- 
ment in the garden busy with his pease and straw- 
berries. 

‘^Oh, I knew he would, mother, and my plan has 
been the best, to let him have his way,” was Nelson’s 
reply. 

Carl makes the cottage his home, he occupies the 
room his beloved died in. Every morning he goes to 
the city, returning to Tanglewood about five in the 
afternoon, and his work grows in favor each year. 
After Mary’s death, every evening during the sum- 
mer months, he would walk towards the cemetery, 
and after the lapse of an hour or so those at the 
cottage would 'hear the strains of the flute, and the 
sweet notes of '‘Nearer, My God to Thee; Nearer to 
Thee,” wafted on the soft winds to their ears. Art- 
ists are not given so much to jealousy as men in 
other professions, unless those who have no claim to 
the name. So Nelson’s comrades did not turn green 
with envy at the work he turned out. There was a 
little complaining at first, that he had had so many 
more advantages than they ; but his paintings were so 
fine, so original in handling and in depth and breadth, 
so full of inspiration, that the boys were all glad to 
learn from him. Besides he was such a generous 
fellow, ready at all times to help hi§ brother artists 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 265 

with his knowledge, and his purse, if necessary. His 
reputation grows yearly, and he is considered by all 
who take interest in such matters, to be one of the 
rising young painters of America. Yet, while Amer- 
icans are willing enough to recognize merit and give 
praise, they are slow to patronize their own country’s 
talent. Still, as nothing is gained without toil and 
patience, Nelson works on with the hope and buoy- 
ancy which is the inheritance of the young and enthu- 
siastic. 

Arthur Lowell has become head of the Academy, 
with a corps of teachers under him. In the early 
days of his marriage, his wife tried to help him with 
her abundant ideas, but they did not always see alike, 
nor agree on art matters. Gartha did not advance 
what might' be termed opinions, but in the conversa- 
tion which would naturally arise between them, she 
full of ideas, he intellectual in a sense, but more on 
the mechanical order, his knowledge being other 
men’s knowledge ; while her thoughts would flow like 
a clear crystal stream. He would listen to them with 
polite attention, yet at the same time he treated them 
with a coldness and indifference that fell on her heart 
like ice. After her friend’s demise, Gartha and her 
husband went abroad for a three months’ tour; these 
were happy days to Gartha, days that even in her 
highest flights into dream-land, she never expected 
to see or feel. To be sailing in a gondola around 
lovely, historic Venice, to be sauntering about Rome, 
spending hours in St. Peter’s and studying the work 
of the generations of dead and gone artists and archi- 


266 


In the Market Place. 


tects, was new food to a mind which was ever seek- 
ing knowledge. She threw about everything she saw 
her rich imagination; and when she beheld for the 
first time those grand Greek gods and goddesses, she 
thought her companion, her newly made husband, 
must have descended from them, come down from a 
long line of ancestors, each growing more refined, 
until he stood beside her in his God-like beauty. 

Yet Gartha was no sensuous dreamer; still there 
was enough of the sensuous in her nature to soften 
and blend with her intellect and ideality. Life to her 
was serious, it meant work to be up and doing. When 
Arthur and she returned to their own country they 
settled down in their cozy house on the hill, which 
she beautified with her own hands, until it seemed 
like a fairy palace. After this she wanted to assist 
her husband in his school; could she write his lec- 
tures? She knew it would help him; she did write 
one, and read it to Nelson, who pronounced it good. 
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that Pro- 
fessor Lowell would never read it to his pupils, but 
he stopped short and sighed, remembering that 
Arthur was now her husband, and said, that she her- 
self should have been an artist. 

Arthur Lowell was one of those men who could 
not bear a woman to think she could in any way lead 
him ; that her intellect, although of a different kind, 
could help or give stimulus to his. In the first five or 
six months of their marriage he humored his wife in 
many of her undertakings, only to kill them before 
half accomplished, by cool, stinging sarcasms, which 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 267 

bit deep into the heart, and stifled aspiration. As the 
days went by, he gave her to understand that it was 
his wish that she should pay more attention to 
society, to entertaining of his friends, the people he 
invited to his house ; the wives and daughters of the 
professors of the great institution of learning, to 
which the Art Academy was annexed. And they 
were all members of that church, whose religion was 
founded on the broad and liberal principles of being 
one with the Father. But Gartha at this time was 
not in harmony with what they termed broad and 
liberal principles; broad and liberal she was, for a 
woman of her years, but as she said to Nelson Law- 
rie: ‘Taith was a light given to but few.” And 
great faith was hers, it was the strongest element in 
her nature. It was this faith that gave her strength, 
to quaff the bitter cup, when offered, and drink to its 
very dregs ; and afterwards walk steadily on and up 
the mountain steeps, carrying others with her. Oh, 
beautiful faith! 

When she came to learn that her husband’s desire 
was that she should go more in society, and also 
entertain more, certainly, she thought, she would be 
delighted to meet and converse with these learned 
men and their wives and daughters; it was just the 
thing, and would open up the life she had been reach- 
ing out to. She would form a coterie of women, and 
have her social gatherings, and her informal at 
homes, which would be the ideal exponent of herself. 
They would converse of books and paintings, science 
and arL the philosophy and beauty of the spiritual 


268 


In the Market Place. 


life. And she would open up her mind, and plans for 
future work, and she was sure she would find many 
who would be in sympathy with her. 

But Gartha found in her gatherings that the con^ 
versation invariably drifted into the most common- 
place little gossipings about this and that. One day 
she said to a rich lady, that she was very much in- 
terested in the education of children, her dream was 
to build a home, a great institution for girls and boys. 
Not a charity place, for the word charity to her, un- 
less for each other’s faults, had a blighting effect on 
her. ‘‘It chills me to the marrow,” she said, with a 
quiver of the lip. “I mean a home in every respect, 
where girls can be taught the art of housekeeping, a 
system of economy, to cook food plainly and pal- 
atably, and serve it daintily ; and out of little to make 
home attractive and beautiful ; and above all, how to 
become good wives and mothers. Then we would 
soon have no use for jails and prisons.” 

The rich lady said she would speak to a gentleman 
who knew all about mission schools and asylums ; but 
the gentleman thought Mrs. Lowell’s scheme vision- 
ary and impracticable. 

Gartha looked in vain for the congenial friends, 
the kindred spirits, to whom it would be a pleasure 
and delight to converse with, to open her heart to, 
and pour out the abundance of her ideas. She found 
that those she came in contact with, with the excep- 
tion of some few, that their minds did not run in the 
same channel with hers ; they did not care to listen to 
ideas, they were too much interested in themselves ; 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 269 

in their small affairs of every day ; and never having- 
gotten out of their own little narrow rut, they were 
not conscious of their barrenness of mind. So she 
felt herself shut in, dammed up, as it were, by ice- 
bergs; how could she speak her thoughts to those 
who never think ; to those -'vho had nothing in com- 
mon with her? They did not understand her, so to 
protect themselves, they resented her superiority, by 
saying she was so very odd and queer. So the days 
passed and instead of the great results which she 
hoped to achieve as time went by, it was taken up by 
trifles, small teas and dinner parties, going to this 
entertainment and that. It was only when she went 
to Tanglewood, and had long talks with Mrs. Lawrie, 
and spent an hour or two in the studio with Nelson 
and Carl, that the old enthusiasm for work revived 
the heart’s desire to accomplish something, and be 
of use to others. She would often ask herself if the 
old ideal days would ever return again. Alas, no. 
Mary, the beloved companion of her girlhood, was 
gone, and she belonged to another, and that other 
was her husband, and he had it in his power to make 
or to mar her life. 

Arthur Lowell loved power too well to ever relin- 
quish one atom of it to his wife. The sense of it was 
so great in him that even to bend for a moment the 
will of a child to his, gave him keen satisfaction. The 
boy of fifteen, who dared to resist his commands 
whetted his appetite to such an extent that he never 
gave him up until he was like dough in his hands, 
and he could knead him to any shape. A petty 


270 


In the Market Place. 


power, you say, but to equal it, to combat it, one 
would have to fight with Arthur’s weapons : indiffer- 
ence, selfishness and a hard dominant nature. The 
tender blossom of the fruit has no protection against 
the cruel frost that blights it before maturity. Can 
we wonder, then, that Gartha cried in the secret of 
her heart, ‘'Must I shape my life according to his 
wishes, give up my days, to the petty details which 
he exacts from me, and which have no meaning or 
potence for me ?” 

Thus she fretted and chafed, as she felt the time 
slipping away, without a spade turned in the field 
she cared most to harrow. She wished to please her 
husband, and her love for him kept her wavering 
between what she longed to begin, and the fear of 
his displeasure. She would often have moments of 
wild, passionate craving, when she would go into her 
room, raise her arms above her head, and cry out; 
“I cannot live this existence ; I feel my heart drying 
up, my very soul withering within me. I must go 
out and gather the little children abcut me ; but even 
this he forbids me. Oh, my heavenly Father, help me 
in this conflict.” Gartha, with all her woman’s cling- 
ing, was holding on tenaciously to what was once 
her ideal; her husband was always the gentleman, 
Always the same Apollo-like being ; but it was his in- 
difference, the humiliation which he subjected her to 
daily; that was the chilling blight which fell on her 
I’fe, and caused her to cry, “Oh, for a touch of the 
|md, a breath, a ray of light, something by which 
Ji can feel and know, that my friend and sister Mar^ is 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 271 

near me/’ And at these moments there would be 
given her a calm, a solace, a resignation to her fate, 
a peace which soothed her for days. 

And thus it was, she who from childhood had been 
the teacher and guide of others, she who could turn 
the mind from muddy sloughs to pure streams, she 
whose body was a temple of chastity, whose garments 
were as unstained as the lilies of the field, and did not 
care how much she smirched them with others’ filth, 
so long as with a gentle hand she led them into the 
straight and healthful path, she who was strong in 
temptation, firm in principle, brave when it came to 
right and wrong, seemed powerless now to guide her 
own steps, or stay the will which bent and swayed 
her like the winds did the branches of the trees in 
her garden. Such is the power one individual holds 
over the actions and happiness of another. These 
were the gray clouds that had flitted across the sky 
of our heroine, the dark shadow which now and then 
rested on her fair brow. At times an unconscious 
folding of the arms, accompanied with a sigh, a laps- 
ing into thought, sitting for an hour or half hour 
with her clear eyes, trying to penetrate the veil which 
is drawn between the visible and invisible, and whose 
tears often dimmed their light. Perhaps when the 
storm comes, beats and rages about her in earnest, 
she may find her strength and stand as deeply rooted 
as the giant Oak, resisting all its force. 

Thus we find Gartha eighteen months after her 
marriage to Arthur Lowell. It was late in the after- 
noon, of a late summer day, her usual time for open- 


272 In the Market Place. 

ing the closed shutters and windows of the house, to 
let the cool breeze blow through. As she stepped 
out onto the porch, and seated herself in a large 
willow rocking-chair, with her work-basket in her 
lap, and was in the act of searching for her thimble, 
she thought she heard footstep on the walk ; raising 
her eyes she saw standing before her, her husband 
and a young girl. She could hardly tell whether the 
girl was sixteen or twenty years of age. At the first 
glance, her face appeared childish, but when she came 
to look again, it seemed older than even twenty years, 
and had an expression of maturity which the world 
gives to those who enter its gaities when in their first 
teens ; in other words the freshness and bloom of the 
girl had been rubbed off. Gartha’s first impression 
was that of dislike, but when she saw the slight, tall 
figure, the face with its skin like marble, the large, 
dark blue eyes, the chestnut brown hair, the brows, 
the heavy, long fringed lids, the rose-bud mouth, her 
cheek flushed to think she had wronged her. It was 
the nose that had impressed her so disagreeably. 

‘'My wife. Miss Effie Graham,” said Arthur, re- 
moving his hat and fanning himself with it, "a young 
pupil left in my charge for a year or two ; I did not 
think a boarding house just the place for a young 
girl, so I thought the best thing to do was to bring 
her home. I could think of no one who would take 
better care of her than yourself.” 

"Come ill,” said Gartha, rising and extending her 
hand, "you must be tired, as the day has been very 
warm.” The girl looked anything ^ut warm and tired, 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 273 

and seemed entirely oblivious of Gartha’s kindness, 
as she mechanically stretched out a small gloved 
hand to take the one so generously proffered her. 

‘'Come into my room, perhaps you would like to 
bathe your face and brush your hair, before tea,’’ 
said Gartha, relieving her husband of Effie’s wraps 
and traveling satchel. 

“I believe I will, a little cool water would feel 
good,” answered the girl, raising her eyes to Mrs. 
Lowell’s face for the first time, but _she instantly 
dropped them again, as Gartha’s somewhat inquiring 
gaze met hers. 

“Your home is it far from here?” asked Gartha, as 
she poured out the cool water into the basin. 

“My present home is about ten or fifteen miles 
from the city, on the other side of the river,” replied 
the girl. 

“Did I understand that you had lost both father 
and mother?” inquired Grrtha, who had enough 
woman’s curiosity to make her impatient to find out 
more about her new charge, than what Arthur had 
imparted. 

“My parents must have died when I was but a mite 
of a baby. Aunt Salina, who was my real aunt, never 
said much about them ; only that my mother was her 
sister,” returned Effie, wiping her face with the cor- 
ner of the towel in a sort of slip-shod way. “My own 
aunt, who was Aunt Salina, died about a year ago, 
and I have been living with Aunt Madge, who is not 
my aunt or any relation, but she always, since I re- 
member anything, lived with Aunt Salina. She’s a 
18 


Ct74 Market Place. 

horrid thing, and you wouldn’t like her a bit ; I have 
never cared for her, and I think she could poison me, 
because Aunt Salina left me all her fortune. Aunt 
Madge expected to get half at least of her estate. 
Aunt Salina left her but a small portion, and a 
monthly allowance. Neither do I like Aunt Madge’s 
and Aunt Salina’s lawyer, although he did fetch me to 
see Mr. Lowell. Aunt Salina gave me permission in 
her will to go two years to the Art Academy. I could 
never, while she lived, induce her to let me go. I do 
love to paint,” she said, with a kind of breathless 
softness, opening out her long braids of hair, until 
it fell about her shoulders, like heavy, lustrous folds 
of brown satin. '‘Professor Lowell is so handsome ; 
oh, he’s your husband, ain’t he; oh he’s lovely; do 
you paint?” she asked, with a suppressed eagerness, 
glancing at Gartha, then quickly turning her eyes in 
another direction of the room. 

"What a strange girl!” thought Gartha, "it is evi- 
dent she has had no moral training ; I will do what I 
can for her ; there is nothing sweeter than youth, still 
it is hard to break one of slovenly habits and bad 
manners, after they have been formed.” 

In a few moments tea was served ; Effie seemed to 
enjoy the meal, as she did everything she saw in the 
house and about the grounds. After tea, Arthur 
left them, as he had to be present at some meeting 
of the board of directors, and a little later Effie com- 
plained of feeling tired. Gartha showed her up-stairs 
to her room, the spare chamber which was a sym- 
phony in blue and pink; she then left her to retire 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 275 

and went down stairs and out to the front gate, 
where she stood some moments looking down the 
road, and her eyes rested lovingly on Tanglewood, 
nestling among the tall forest trees. Dear Tangle- 
wood, she thought, and sighed. It was a beautiful 
night, soft and warm, with languid perfumed winds, 
which blew about her, and kissed her cheek and hair. 
She left the gate, went and seated herself in one of 
the rustic benches that stood under one of the large 
maples, and her thoughts wandered to the young 
girl, and the strange manner in which she was 
brought to her home. There was something about 
her, young and pretty as she was, that was not to her 
liking; a something that jarred on all her fine sensi- 
bilities. Arthur would certainly explain the matter 
to her more fully when he came home, and they were 
alone together. The girl was an orphan, and she 
could see, in a sense, uneducated ; could she take her 
to her heart? Could she form her character, and in- 
still in her all the fine principles and good she most 
desired to see in woman? She was afraid not; the 
girl was too old, but she would try and overcome 
her prejudice towards her; it was wrong for those 
who preached generosity to other’s faults, not to 
practice it themselves. 

These were her thoughts, when she heard a voice 
at her side say : ‘'Gartha !” She looked up and saw 
Carrie, Mrs. Carst, standing before her. ‘‘Dearest, 
is it you?” exclaimed Gartha, rising and folding Car- 
rie in her arms. “Dear girl, have you come back to 
us?” And Gartha wept as she kissed Carrie again 


276 


In the Market Place. 


and again. ‘'And who is this?’’ she asked, after a 
few moment’s silence, and turning to the black 
woman who stood a little distance from them with 
a little girl of nearly eight or nine months, in her 
arms. 

"It is Charlotte, you remember mamma’s maid, 
and my little Mary.” 

"Yes, I recollect now your mother’s faithful nurse, 
and as much as the invading darkness will permit me 
to see, little Mary is the image of yourself,” replied 
Gartha, taking the child in her arms. 

"Papa says she is another Van Court,” returned 
Carrie, seating herself on the bench, and Gartha ob- 
served that Carrie had changed for the better; that 
there was no trace in her face of the bitterness it 
wore the morning of her wedding ; but instead an ex- 
pression of resignation, that touched it with some of 
the softness of earlier days. 

"I have named her Mary, for her we both loved.” 

"Ah, yes, so beloved, so dear to us all,” answered 
Gartha with a sigh. 

"Charlotte has been Mary’s nurse since mamma’s 
death.” 

"I was not aware you had lost your mother, when 
did she die?” 

"She died six months ago, while we were abroad; 
papa had taken mamma to Nice for her health and 
she passed away while there. Since her death papa 
has changed so much for the better. I am free to go 
where I please now; he would not mind a bit if I 
were to go to the cottage. I suppose Nelson has told 


The Gathering of a Dark Cloud. 277 

you about our meeting several times at receptions, 
during his stay last winter at the Capital/’ And she 
pressed Gartha’s hand tightly. Gartha shuddered, 
but it was not perceived by Carrie. ‘‘And papa has 
made amends to Nelson for the haughty, insolent 
way he had treated him before my marriage,” she 
continued, “he introduced Nelson to every man of 
note and influence, and his stay at the state Capital 
was quite a success. Aside from the large painting 
for the governor’s house, he received commissions 
for several others. I hope papa will like Nelson bet- 
ter and better, and I think he will, as Nelson has a 
chance to reveal to him his true character.” 

“And I am sure your father will find him hon- 
orable, manly and courageous,” returned Gartha, 
whose cheek burned little Mary’s as she held the 
child’s face close to hers; but her answer seemed 
rather a challenge to some internal troubled question 
of her own. 

They talked for an hour and over, of many things 
in the past, of a new future opening up to both, and 
of a happy social intercourse. Then Gartha took her 
into the house,* and showed her through the pretty 
rooms. After they stood on the front porch, prom- 
ising renewed friendship and to soon meet again. 
Carrie was to come often and bring Charlotte and 
little Mary. “Oh, you may be sure it will not be but 
a few days until I am here popping in on you in the 
old way.” 

After Carrie left Gartha stood at the gate, ponder- 
ing over the events of the evening; what a strange 


In the Market Place. 


278 

coincidence, she thought; the coming of the girl to 
her home and Carrie’s visit. Was it safe for her and 
Nelson to be thrown again together? Carrie did not 
mention her husband ; she herself had heard unpleas- 
ant rumors concerning him and a noted society 
woman; then Arthur came leisurely up the walk 
smoking a cigar. 

''My dear, out here in the damp air, watching for 
my return, of course. Now don’t bother about me; 
I can take care of myself,” he said, and was going to 
pass her, but she took his arm and walked by his 
side into the house. Arthur went into the dining- 
room and seated himself in one of the large willow 
arm-chairs to finish his cigar. When Gartha had 
fastened the doors and windows for the night, she 
went to the dining-room, knelt down beside him and 
wound her arms about his neck, and laid her head 
on his shoulder. "What now ?” he said, stroking her 
beautiful hair. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing,” she answered with a sigh. 

"Where is Effie?” he asked, not heeding her sigh. 

"In her room,” was her reply, smothering another 
sigh. 


CHAPTER V. 


A^TE^R the: GOVE:rNOR’S BAIvI.. 

We must now go back a few months to early 
spring, the season at the state Capital was drawing to 
a close ; the Governor’s ball being the winding up of 
all the brilliant balls and receptions given through 
the winter. Madame Bogardus had spent the winter 
at the state Capital. She had spent all her winters 
there since Laurence Carst had been a member of 
the Legislature. The General had always business 
of great importance there while that august body 
was in session. 

No salon during the past season was more gay and 
lavish in its splendor than Madame’s, she outdid and 
outshone all competitors for social honors. Large 
banking houses and business firms, if one has but 
observed, the nearer they are to failure and ruin, the 
greater risks they run. It was the fear of a crash, 
that made Madame Bogardus try to rival all other 
women of her set in her costumes, and cause her 
more than ever to meditate. It was after midnight, 
and Madame had just come from the Governor’s ball, 
as she entered her room, she threw off her fur-lined 
cloak, in a manner which indicated she was not in 
the very best of humor. She crossed the floor, went 

279 


28 o 


In the Market Place. 


and stood before the mirror in all the splendor of her 
rich attire; in all the superbness of her flashing, 
.gleaming gems. Her face is pale, and she shows her 
pearls the least bit, then a faint smile moves and 
lingers about the drooping corners of the sensual 
mouth, which, after all, betokens she has something 
to meditate on, quite to her liking. She leaves the 
mirror, paces up and down the floor, a few moments, 
then throws herself into a chair. How she purrs and 
wraps and unwraps her fingers in her velvet palms, 
as she falls to meditating. 

‘‘Ah, I have succeeded at last in bringing them to- 
gether, the fine young fellow and her ; he has changed 
so much for the better since his tour abroad, and 
grown so handsome that I did not recognize him 
when he first came to the Capital, in the early winter. 
And then an artist besides, how romantic, and poor 
of course. Artists are generally poor, especially in 
this country; our nouveau riche buy all their paint- 
ings in Europe. Two poor fools, why didn’t they 
marry and have done with it? It’s all she’s fit for. 
Yes, this young Lawrie has been here all winter, 
engaged on some large painting, for the Governor’s 
new house. He was all defference to her to-night. 
I wonder if Carst observed them, when their eyes 
met, how pale she turned, then blushed to the roots 
of her hair. I am sure he did, for as the fine young 
fellow drew near to her side, I took particular pains 
to attract Carst’s attention to them. If I can but 
arouse his jealousy, his suspicion of his wife and the 
fine young fellow; ah, the outcome what would it 


After the Governor's Ball. 


C181 


be ? I know not, I care not ; I must use him to carry 
out my plans. Then let Carst threaten to sunder the 
ties he himself in the beginning left nothing undone 
to create ; yes, let him, if he dares.’’ She rises, paces 
the floor again, up and down. Her French maid 
enters, and Madame, assuming a subdued dignity, 
asks her if the General had retired. 

‘^Oui, Madame, it ize some time zince Villiam, ze 
General’s valet, informed me zat ze General had re- 
tired.” Madame dismisses her maid, she will dis- 
pense with her services to-night, as it is so late, and 
she is not ready yet to retire ; not having finished her 
meditation. She throws herself into her satin-lined 
chair, but Madame is doomed to be interrupted; a 
light tap at the door, and Laurence Carst enters un- 
announced. 

He wore a long, black cloak wrapped about him, 
the high collar drawn up about his neck, and par- 
tially concealing his face. As he entered he threw 
the fold of his cloak back over his shoulder. He was 
still in evening dress. ‘‘Be seated,” said Madame, in 
a half audible tone, and pointing to a chair near the 
one she reclined in, but Carst did not comply with 
her request, but stood in the middle of the room. 

'Another new costume,” he said, after a long pause 
in which neither spoke, "yet you assured me that you 
would make no more demands upon me for money 
until I could recover a little from what was filched 
from me when I went into the State Senate, and the 
promises I have made for my congressional com- 
paign, during the coming fall.” 


282 


In the Market Place. 


‘'Madame Carst wore a new costume to-night, 
fully as expensive as this,’’ she replied, picking up 
the pearl and point lace fan that lay on her lap, and 
began swaying it to and fro, in a slow, voluptuous 
motion, then letting it fall listlessly on her lap again. 

“My wife has her own income,” he answered with 
a sneer, a sneer that was never pleasant to behold, 
“she can do as she feels like with it, and spend it as 
she sees fit. Madame,” he went on, taking a step or 
two nearer to where she was seated, and resting his 
cold glance upon her; his delicate hand trembling 
with suppressed anger, as he pulled at his brown, 
silken goatee, “I demand that this unnecessary ex- 
penditure of money must and shall be stopped. I 
will here be explicit with you, no matter what ex- 
posure shall follow ; not one dollar of my wife’s pri- 
vate income shall I touch for you. It is but a few 
months since a feill of your dressmaker’s for three 
thousand dollars was cashed at my banker’s, and 
there is another five hundred,” he said, pointing to 
the rich brocade shimmering under lace, which fell 
about her and on the floor like crusted snow flakes, 
glinting in the sunlight. “I positively refuse to pay 
any more such bills.” He stepped a few paces back 
and wrapped the fold of hij cloak about him. 

“Mrs. Carst is a virtuous wife, she will not mind 
making small sacrifices ; go tell her that you are 
straitened for money, which seems queer, when 
you know how money flowed into every member’s 
hands during the fight over the great street-car com- 
bine. Jim GiK)n said there was five hundred thou- 


After the Governor’s Ball. 283 

sand dollars used by the B’s, and your vote was re- 
served to put the clinch on D’s. Tell her/’ she con- 
tinued, without daring to raise her eyes to his, ''that 
you had to use a great deal of money, in your last 
campaign, and now in the coming fight for congress ; 
and she will give you her whole year’s income. She 
can give up pleasures, luxuries and society, because 
she does not care for them. But I must have them. 
I have worked hard for you the last three months 
and in a little while you shall go to congress, then 
to the United States Senate. Have faith in me, I 
have not lost that power which brings men to my 
feet ; but don’t mind my gowns ; I can work to better 
advantage in fine gowns. Mrs. Carst will give you 
her whole fortune if you will but absent yourself 
when young Lawrie is around.” She dare not turn 
her face towards him, she felt his gaze upon her, 
while her head, with its crowning of gold, leaned 
against the crimson satin of the chair and moved her 
fan, back and forth, in slow undulations. 

"Do you mean to infer that my wife’s conduct is 
not of the most chaste? I have never questioned 
but what she was one of the purest of women,” he 
replied, but not without doubt, and suspicion, gleam- 
ing from his eyes, which were white with rage ; not 
without the wrankle of jealousy in his heart, as he ran 
his nervous fingers through his maple brown goatee. 
We generally judge others by our own standard of 
things, be they high or low, and some see them with 
eyes dimmed by the film of narrowness and sin, which 
obscures the vision, to all but the blurred and 


284 


In the Market Place, 


splotched surface. The web which Madame had 
woven so intricately about him, and which at first 
seemed so slight, so soft and silken, until like the 
poor, silly fly he was caught, fast, bound hand and 
foot, in its meshes. And what are men after all with 
their pride of reason, strengt!i and intellect, but poor, 
silly flies, when it comes to a woman like Madame? 
They are willing enough to be entrapped, ensnared, by 
a smile, a caressing touch of her white velvet hand. 
Prate of reason, but where is the reason then? Or, 
if they have any, they don’t care to use it. 

'‘Bah,” she hissed, springing up from her seat, her 
face pale, her eyes glaring, and showing her pearls, 
clear to their red setting, "fool, are you blind to the 
attentions she receives from Nelson Lawrie, the art- 
ist ? Do you think she loves you ; do you imagine she 
ever loved you? Did you care when you married 
her whether she loved you or not? Marriage for 
convenience is a good thing ; it suited your purpose ; 
it gave you more wealth, position and influence, and 
I made it suit mine.” For an instant her eyes met 
his, but she crouched down under his unflinching 
gaze, like the cat she was ; had he averted her glance 
she would have sprung upon him and clutched at his 
throat ; but she shrank back and threw herself into a 
chair, and kept her eyes turned from him, so that he 
might not see the fierce passion, the momentary 
hate, that glared from them. 

For a second or two all his courage, arrogance and 
self-conceit left him and he seemed to shrivel up 
within himself. Still he knew her weakness, her love 


After the Governor's Ball. 285 

of the world, and the things of the world ; its pleas- 
ures, honors and triumphs, and she had as much and 
more to lose than himself. 

He stepped a few paces towards her. '‘I hope my 
wife's name will never again be mentioned between 
us," his voice was low, but cold to cruelty, ‘'and I 
repeat, I refuse to pay any more exorbitant bills con- 
tracted by you." There was a decision in his tone 
and manner that Madame was not used to and it 
made her shudder, for her plans were not yet ma- 
tured. He picked up his hat from a table, where he 
had laid it when he first entered her boudoir, wrapped 
his cloak about him and crossed the floor to the 
door. 

She leaped from her seat and was at his side in an 
instant. “Stay," she cried, “do you think that you 
can throw me aside now, strip me of my social posi- 
tion and triumphs, and have those who kneel at my 
feet scorn and spurn me? To make a scandal now 
would ruin you, ruin your whole career; you could 
never be elected to congress." 

She tore at the rare old point lace of her dainty 
handkerchief until it fell in shreds at her feet. “My 
mother sold me to that wretch lying in yonder room, 
in a drunken, sottish sleep. Position and wealth, 
position and wealth, was sung in my ears since I was 
five years old ; since my old black nurse stood me on a 
chair before the bureau glass, and held up my golden 
curls and murmured, ‘was there ever such a beautiful 
child?'- And as the years went by position and wealth 
was my dream by day and night. Ha, ha, ha. General 


286 


In the Market Place. 


Bogardus came ; he had position and wealth, and 1113^ 
mother urged my marriage to him. Yes he gave me 
position, but cheated me in the wealth. Then you 
threw your love and gold at my feet ; I stooped down 
and picked them up, so I cheated him.’’ She raised 
her jeweled hands, pulled the pink roses from her 
bosom and began to pick their leaves one by one, 
until the floor where she stood was strewn with their 
color and perfume. ''No, no, it must not be,” she 
went on, digging her pearls into the red lips, until it 
seemed they they would spurt blood, "to make a 
scandal now would kill your whole career. I own I 
have been a little extravagant,” she said, more softly, 
"but I have my reasons, and my ambition gets away 
with me sometimes.” He made a move to the door 
again, but she held him back, and laid her head, with 
its coils of yellow fleece, on his shoulder. 

"Don’t detain me ; I have been here too long now,” 
he said, gently. "I have an engagement at the 

House, with Jim Gilson. I must see him 

before he leaves for St. L. in the morning.” But 
Madame held him fast, nor did she let him go until 
she knew she was forgiven, at least until the next 
quarrel. 

When Carst left Madame Bogardus he got into 
his carriage that was awaiting him outside, and was 

driven down town to the House, where Jim 

Gilson was to meet him, some time aftar midnight. 
He found him asleep on a sofa in his room, but Jim 
bounded up as soon as he heard the knock on his 


After the Governor’s Ball. 287 

door. ''Thought you were going to slip me,” he said, 
looking at his watch, "it's now half after two. Take 
a seat.” 

"It's late, Gilson ; all I want to know if the whole 
affair is settled.” 

"Settled; there never was anything settled hand- 
somer. D. and L., as you know, fought like tigers; 
they are the only men I have ever met in all my 
political jobbing, that I ever knew to have a con- 
science. They did fight for the people's interest, 
pure and simple; but they were from the farming 
counties.” And Jim dropped one corner of his light 
greenish blue eye, and fixed it on Carst, who had 
thrown himself into a chair near a table that stood in 
the center of the room. 

"I'm a hard man, and an unscrupulous one, when 
I come to deal with my fellows, who are in the same 
pot with myself, and reaching out after the same 
jug,” he said, placing a chair by the table, and seat- 
ing himself, Carst's vis-a-vis ; "but it took a will of 
iron and the nerve of steel to do what you did, and 

by , by George, I mean, I admire you for it; 

yes, da — n me, if I don't. Oh, yes, the franchise is for 
fifty years, and is worth millions, and millions; yes, 
hundreds of millions,” he muttered, rising, and be- 
ginning to pace the floor, "and it won't be three years 
before the combine will control every street, avenue 
and road in the city ; and for twenty miles into every 
surrounding suburb, north, south, east and west. 
And they will control all the electric plants, gas. 


288 


In the Market Place, 


plants and every right of way, and old St. L., that in 
the past owned herself, and her citizens that were 
free, comfortable and happy, have been sold; and 
the people’s dream of municipal ownership is gone 
forever; the people have been sold. Yes, da — n me, 
sold.” 

^'Bah, it is the forward march of the times, Jim; 
what do the masses understand or care ?” said Carst, 
glancing with a cold glitter in his eye on the man 
pacing the floor, the thin nostrils of his long, aristo- 
cratic nose dilating, as he continued, ‘'the common 
herd know they have to have men of brain, men of 
affairs to govern and manage these things ; besides, 
they will be better served, have quicker transporta- 
tion and cheaper rates.” 

'‘Ye-s, that was the issue the franchise was fought 
out on, the benefit of the people,” and Jim laughed; 
it was a mean, insinuating laugh, “it’s the old dodge, 
the old stock in trade. We do everything nowadays 
for the good of the people. Of course — sure, — we 
have always the good of humanity at heart ; no self- 
interest.” And Jim fairly roared this time. “Excuse 
me, your honor, I mean no offense, but the good of 
the people and the humanity dodge is the finest kind 
of an instrument to work with. I’ve never as yet 
known it to fail in politics. Well, the B’s wanted 
to behave niggardly, but before we got through with 
them there was a cool five hundred thousand used. 
No offense, your honor, it was all done in the proper 
way; all legitimate, sir,” and Jim dropped the lid of 


After the Governor’s Ball. 289 

his small, light, pea-green eye, but there was a 
curious brightness in it ?js he took a furtive glance 
at his chief, and set his thin lips squarely together. 

^All it wants now is the Governor's signature," 
said Carst, his white fingers pulling nervously at the 
ends of his brown mustache. ‘‘Do you think he will 
hold back?" 

“Not at all, sir; there will be a little dilly-dallying, 
and the usual howl, in the partisan press, but that is 
the newspapers’ by play, their after farce. The Gov- 
ernor will take his medicine nicely; he will hold 
enough shares, so his family won’t starve for the rest 
of all their natural lives. Of course, you know how 
these things are managed ; they will simply be made a 
present to him, if not now, after his term of office 
expires." And Jim stood by the table and poured 
out two glasses of sherry from a decanter. “Take a 
little, sir, it will warm you up, and now to wind up 
the business, you will run for congress in the fall, and 
the next March walk right into the Capitol at Wash- 
ington. That’s promised, dead sure." 

Jim Gilson was the new type of wire-puller, the 
man who does the questionable work of politics ; as 
his chief, Carst, was the new type of legislator. One 
might say that Jim Gilson was an improvement on 
his older brother in the same political line; he was 
more polished, better dressed and better educated, 
and had plenty of money. But, of the two, the older 
had more heart, more originality and distinct charac- 
ter, and that which goes to make the man was not so 
19 


290 


In the Market Place. 


much eliminated; for Jim, while he had a keen Irish- 
Yankee sense of the humbug, and the false methods 
and expedients used to blind the people, but, like his 
chief, again, he was utterly unscrupulous, when it 
came to his own interests, and gaining his own ends. 
As Carst was the product of his time and country, 
Jim Gilson was the product of men like Carst. 


CHAPTER VI. 


society in a EEUTTER. 

It was again a June night, and all the wealth and 
joyousness of spring and its fainter tints of bud and 
bloom had matured into the deeper and richer colors 
of early summer. The Van Court mansion and the 
Van Court grounds were again the scene of music, 
light and revelry. The warm south winds wandered 
through the stately trees, laden with the fragrance of 
flowers, and the perfume gathered from fields of ripe 
grain, which rose and fell in waves of golden foam 
to hills that lost themselves in a heavy bluish haze, 
and defied absorption from the noon-day sun. Bear- 
ing on its wings the scent from meadows of timothy, 
whose slender, graceful blades it kissed into swelling 
seas of bright green, and made the night as seductive 
as the waltz, which floated out on the air, soft and 
sensuous with its redolence. 

Mrs. Carst’s reception was given before she and 
the family hied away to the Springs, and Laurence, 
her husband, had urged it for political reasons. Car- 
rie stood in her pale gold brocade, its sheen made 
softer by fleecy clouds of creamy lace ; gems flashed 
on her bosom, encircled her throat, gleamed on her 
arms and hands, and bound up her black tresses. 

291 


292 


In the Market Place. 


Her father stood to her left, her husband to her right, 
and little Topping flitted about in a robe of white 
satin and gauze. Topping wore nothing in these 
days but white ; it was so cool, so pure, so very sug- 
gestive of refinement. Madame Bogardus was at- 
tired in a delicate shade of blue satin ; she generally 
wore more striking toilets, but on this night, for 
reasons best known to herself, she appeared in more 
subdued colors, something which would give her a 
touch of pensiveness. How she purred, how luring 
her glance, as she leaned on the arm of the General 
and gave Mrs. Carst the tips of her white gloved 
fingers. Following her came Nelson Lawrie, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Lowell. Carst watches Nelson’s every 
movement with cold, glittering eyes, how they flash 
with disdain and scorn, as they met his honest, cor- 
dial gaze. The Judge’s greeting to Nelson and the 
professor was gracious; but the lovely Mrs. Lowell, 
the Judge expressed the admiration he felt for her, 
in all the polite courtesies and delicate attentions of 
the well-bred gentleman of the old regime. And Car- 
rie thought she had never remembered seeing Gartha 
when she looked more beautiful. 

Beautiful, indeed, she was, what can we say of her. 
She was more like a daughter of the gods, a sister 
of the fair Psyche in her robe of diaphanous white, 
that draped and clung about her tall, willowy form. 
No jewels nor ornaments adorned her person, only a 
blush rose pinned at her throat, and in her hair. Why 
does Madame Bogardps clutch at the rubies on her 


Society in a Flutter. 293 

bosom, as the clear eyes of Gartha meet hers ? 
Madame has her reason. Gartha's eyes are too hon- 
est, too pure, they will thwart Madame in some of her 
well laid schemes. And what is it that makes Top- 
ping forget her own personal charms for the mo- 
ment and gaze in wonder at Mrs. Lowell? It must 
be the special study of the curls that escape from her 
rippling hair, and fall over the broad, fair brow, and 
which have no power to chase away the shadows that 
come and go, and leave it more troubled for having 
rested there. But Topping sees no trace of them, 
and her social nature forbids her standing longer on 
ceremony. ‘'My dear Mrs. Lowell,’’ she said, cross- 
ing to Gartha’s side, “it’s some time since we first 
met at the cottage of the Lawrie’s.” And Topping 
offered the tips of her gloved fingers to Gartha. 
“Tanglewood, oh yes, I shall never forget the impres- 
sion the dear, delightful place made upon me ; you 
know I am such a lover of the arts, and indeed every- 
thing that is picturesque and quaint. Young Mr. 
Lawrie was going to Europe at the time, and I fol- 
lowed the next spring; how unlucky, never to have 
run across him while abroad ; but come to think of it, 
we did come very near meeting at Paris. I had just 
arrived there from London, as he took ship for this 
country. Yes, his sister was looking very pale that 
summer.” The Judge, somewhat annoyed at Top- 
ping’s gush, made a move to leave, but Topping 
turned quickly from Gartha and tapped him playfully 
on the hand^ with her fan, run her arm, which was 


294 the Market Place. 

bare to the shoulder, through his, and marched him 
off to the grounds where the dancing was at its 
height. 

‘‘What a brilliant assemblage,’’ she said, beckoning 
the Judge to a seat beside her. The Judge, who 
always felt she had designs upon him, hesitated a 
moment, then his good breeding overcoming his irri- 
tation, he took the proffered seat. “How pleased you 
must be over Carst’s going to congress in the fall, 
do tell me about it, tell me what you think?” she said, 
looking up in his face, and snapping her little brown 
eyes. 

“My dear Madame, I have no opinion on the sub- 
ject,” he replied, with dignity, feeling vexed at the 
way in which he was taken possession of, “men have 
to run their chances in politics as well as other 
things ; the public is fickle, and as for honesty at the 
polls it is a thing not to be counted on.” 

Here Frank eame with silver salver in hand, and 
asked if massa an’ de lady didn’t want an ice an’ a 
cool drink of something. 

Madame Bogardus was holding her court in the 
dancing tent. Gentlemen gathered about her, and 
men who were not gentlemen. Office-seekers, poli- 
ticians, wire-pullers, and men who do the work, that 
gentlemen won’t do. All these, with their leader, 
Jim Gilson, were paying court to Madame. Jim 
Gilson’s attentions to Madame to-night were marked. 
Indeed Madame, once or twice, was shocked at his 
familiarity. Carst was not so far away but what he 
saw all Madame’s movements, and his eyes flashed 


Society in a Flutter. 29^ 

with passion and the resentment of what he con- 
sidered coarse officiousness in Jim Gilson. Thus we 
cannot touch smut without being smutched. But, 
notwithstanding her court, Madame never lost sight 
of her prey. 

Mrs. Carst, after receiving her guests and speak- 
ing a few pleasant words to all, left the house and 
strayed into the grounds; she wandered down to a 
large old oak tree where she was in the habit of sit- 
ting of mornings under its shade. She generally 
spent an hour or two here with a book or her em- 
broidery before lunch; while Charlotte, who sat on 
the grass at her feet, holding little Mary, feeling the 
great responsibility of guardian and nurse, to both 
mother and child. She was quite tired after her long 
standing and sat down to rest ; she had not been 
seated long when Nelson came walking leisurely to- 
wards her. He had left Gartha and her husband a 
few moments before for the purpose of a stroll, and 
having a quiet smoke. He threw away his cigar and 
seated himself beside her. 

felt quite fatigued after my long stand,” she said, 
‘^and stole away from the crowd, it is so quiet here 
and it’s my favorite trysting place ; little Mary, myself 
and Charlotte spend our mornings here.” 

‘Xet me order an ice and a glass of wine, it will 
refresh you,” he said, rising. On his way to the re- 
freshment tent he met Frank and told him where Mrs. 
Carst had taken refuge, and to fetch what he thought 
she liked best, as he was better acquainted with her 
tastes than he. ''Yes^ sah, laws Massa Lawrie, ye 


ag6 In the Market Place. 

tinks Ise ben bon unda Massa’s de Jedge’s roof, an’ 
not knows what Miss Carrie likes. Yah, ha, yah, ha, 
Lod yah, ha.” Nelson had scarcely seated himself 
again, when Frank came with a tray full of creams, 
orange ices and cakes, and glasses of the different 
kinds of wines. 

‘'I have never had the pleasure of seeing little Mary. 
Gartha informed me she was the perfect image of 
yourself.” 

‘'Would it please you to see her? She is very mis- 
chievous and as full of pranks as a kitten,” she said, 
holding a spoonful of cream to her lips, but barely 
tasting it. 

“Indeed it would ; I can think of nothing that would 
give me greater pleasure than to see your child,” he 
answered in a low voice. 

“Will you love her for my sake ?” she asked softly, 
but sadly. 

“I am very fond of children; I think there is noth- 
ing sweeter than a little, prattling child,” he replied, 
turning away his face, and giving his mustache a vig- 
orous pull. Carrie’s ice almost choked her and she 
let the spoon fall listlessly on the dish. 

“Come some evening before her bed-time,” she said, 
assuming her old light way, “then you will see her in 
her best mood ; she don’t like to go to bed, and Char- 
lotte has to resort to all the arts and strategy she is 
mistress of to get her to the nursery. She is asleep 
now, or I would have Charlotte fetch her down.” 

“I shall come some evening, and if you are not at 
home, her nurse can fetch her to me.” 


Society in a Flutter. 297 

''I will be at home to you, if at home, but send me 
word when you intend coming, and I shall be sure not 
to make any other engagement. And you will love 
little Mary for my sake,'^ she said, raising her beau- 
tiful eyes in a pleading way to his face. How often 
did her eyes meet his with that same expression when 
a girl, when he had dreamed his dreams of riches and 
fame, to be laid at her feet. In his impulsiveness he 
took her hand in his, but she instantly withdrew it 
and rose up ; as she did so she saw her husband and 
Madame Bogardus standing behind a tree, not 
twenty yards from where sho and Nelson were seated, 
the trunk of the tree but partially concealing them. 
She caught but a glimpse of her husband’s face, but 
it was disfigured with jealous hate and revenge. Oh, 
how Madame purred at his side, how caressingly her 
hand held Carsbs arm ; those yellow orbs, how dark 
and intense they grew, as she purred and purred, so 
elated was she with the success of her plot. Poor 
mouse, poor Carrie, she was so innocent of wrong 
doing, so unconscious of the enemy who had all along 
and who was still pursuing her. 

Carrie handed the dainty china dish to Nelson, who 
carried it to the tent. When he had gone, she went 
into the house and up stairs to her room, and from 
there to the nursery where little Mary lay asleep in 
her crib. She looked down a few moments upon the 
sweetly closed lids, the perfect oval face, and mouth 
like a rose-bud opening into bloom. She stooped 
over and kissed her. Leaving the room, she went 
down stairs and into the conservatory, where she 


298 


In the Market Place. 


picked a bunch of heliotrope and a few tea roses. 
From there she walked to the library, and finding it 
empty, she threw herself on a sofa that stood near a 
window, which opened onto one of the small piazzas. 
She was glad to be alone with her thoughts ; what 
she had passed through in the last few years, her child 
should never experience, if she could help it, 
if she was spared to watch over her young life. Mary 
should never know her unhappiness, should never 
marry a man she did not love; no matter what the 
after consequences might be, and she was sure she 
would never marry a man who was unworthy of her. 

Nelson, after leaving the refreshment tent, lighted 
a cigar and strolled down towards the orchard. His 
thoughts were of Carrie and her child; she was an- 
other man’s wife, he knew, but they loved each other 
before she married this other man, and there was no 
crime in his still loving her. The man she called hus- 
band was a villain, and committed a sacrilege when he 
married her; he had seen him and the other woman 
together but a few moments ago. Her father was 
aware now of Carst’s baseness, and it was retribution 
for the indignities he had heaped upon him the morn- 
ing when he stood in his library, asking for his daugh- 
ter’s hand. Her father had since tried to make 
amends for the wrong he had done, and he had for- 
given him, as much as he was capable of forgiveness. 
He sauntered about the grounds for some time, until 
his steps led him again to the house. He would go 
in and take one more look at the old engravings he 
saw hanging in the library ; it would be the last gppor- 


299 


Society in a Flutter. 

tunity he would have for a long time, and perhaps 
never again. He went up the steps of the back porch, 
crossed it and went into the hall. As he entered the 
library door Carrie rose from her reclining position. 

'Tardon me,’’ he said, agreeably surprised at find- 
ing her again so unexpectedly, ''I had such a strong 
desire to take one look more at these old engravings ; 
they are very good and quite rare, as they are almost 
out of print. Am I intruding?” he asked, standing 
in the middle of the floor with bowed head. 

‘‘It was so cool and quiet here, I thought I would 
steal a few moments’ rest. Come,” she said, and she 
beckoned him to a seat beside her on the sofa. “I 
do wish papa would buy some good paintings ; he has 
plenty of money ; I have been wanting him to give you 
a commission for one, for a long time, and he will. 
When I get settled in my new house, I intend to have 
you paint me one of your best, and I shall pay you 
handsomely for it. It will be my aim to make quite 
a collection of paintings, taking so much out of my 
income every year for their purchase.” Then, after a 
pause, she added, “When you left I went up-stairs 
to the nursery to see if Maim was awake, if she had 
been I would have brought her down.” She held the 
bunch of heliotrope and tea roses up to inhale their 
perfume. “Oh, Nelson,” she said, laying her hand on 
his arm, her soft warm hand; to touch him, to feel 
its pressure once again, “oh. Nelson, I have caused 
you so much suffering and pain, and all by my weak- 
ness, cowardice, my love of wealth, luxury and posi- 
tion. Had I been true to my better self, my woman- 


300 In the Market Place. 

hood and the love I bore you, I should never have 
taken the step I did. Nelson, I have suffered; I did 
not love my husband, but my cup was full when I dis- 
covered the baseness of his treachery, the insult to 
my wifehood. I know now how you must have suf- 
fered. Will you forgive me, and forgive my father, 
and love little Mary for my sake 

‘‘Oh, Carrie, I love you ; and it is impossible for me 
to imagine now that I shall ever know the day I will 
not love you. How, then, can I help loving your 
child,” he replied, taking her hand, and raising it rev- 
erently to his lips. 

“Bah, see for yourself,” were the words that came 
hissing to Carrie’s ear. She tore her hand from Nel- 
son’s, looked up and saw Madame Bogardus and 
Carst, her husband, standing by the window, and in a 
second Carst was in the room. His face was flushed 
with wine, his eyes glistened with the fire of a deadly 
hate and revenge ; the thin lips were set in cruel com- 
pression, as he confronted them. 

“Scoundrel ; lov/-bred plebeian,” he cried, his white 
hand uplifted to Nelson’s face, when Gartha, with 
arms raised above her head, appeared and stepped 
between them. Carrie, pale as death, took a few 
steps forward and fell fainting to the floor. 

“Nelson, leav3, leave, I beeseech you, and on your 
honor do not let a breath of this affair get out. 
Come, come with me ; there is a mistake somewhere,” 
and Gartha took hold of Nelson’s arm and, like a man 
stunned by a terrible blow, he followed her without a 
word out to the piazza, where she left him and re- 


301 


Society in a Flutter. 

turned to the library. Carst had also left the library. 
Gartha called to Charlotte and in a few moments Car- 
rie was restored to consciousness. Gartha had heard 
some words pass between Carst and Madame Bo- 
gardus which led her to think there was something 
wrong, and that Carrie and Nelson were the uncon- 
scious cause of it. She had observed Carrie going 
into the house, while she and Arthur were seated 
under a tree that stood some twenty yards from the 
front piazza ; she had also observed Madame’s strange 
movements, and a little later she saw her and Carst 
standing on the small southwest porch, looking into 
the library windows. She made up her mind that all 
was not right, that Madame was carrying out some 
plot, to injure her friends. She must follow and pre- 
vent harm, if possible. 

'‘I cannot understand it,’’ said Carrie, who won- 
dered at the appearance of her husband, and his 
strange conduct. ''I have never acted in any way that 
would compromise my own and my husband’s honor, 
and Nelson Lawrie’s manner towards me has ever 
and always been most courteous and circumspect. I 
am wounded to the heart, Gartha; it is an outrage 
against my womanhood.” 

‘'My dear, don’t breathe it; never pretend to your 
husband but what it was a little mistaken jealousy on 
his part.” Gartha then left Carrie in care of Char- 
lotte, thinking the whole affair at an end, and found 
Arthur waiting for her at the foot of the winding 
stairway, knowing nothing of what had taken place, 
he supposing his wife had gone for her wraps. 


CHAPTER VIL 


sunrise:. 

EarIvY the following morning there was a loud ring 
at the Lawrie cottage door; the summons was an- 
swered by Mrs. Lawrie in person. On opening the 
door, there stood before her a tall, slender man, of 
some thirty-two or three years, with bright, keen 
eyes, a heavy, black mustache, its long waxed ends 
curling up in the most dainty fashion. His clothes 
were of the latest cut, and in his neatly gloved hand 
he twirled a fancy willow cane. 

‘'Good morning, Madame; young Mr. Lawrie at 
home 

“Yes, come in,’’ said Mrs. Lawrie, but not without 
surprise, wondering who the stranger could be. 

“Can I see him alone, as I have a small matter of 
business with him, but quite important,” he said, 
twirling his cane, around and around. Mrs. Lawrie 
led the way to the studio. “My son, a gentleman to 
see you.” 

Nelson ceased his pacing up and down the floor, 
as he was still laboring under the excitement of the 
night before. When Mrs. Lawrie closed the door of 
the studio, the strange gentleman handed Nelson a 
letter, not on the point of a sword, as in the days of 
302 


Sunrise. 


303 

chivalry, but in purely American fashion. Nelson 
read the challenge. 

‘‘It’s ail right,” he said, looking searchingly into the 
stranger’s face ; “I hope no hint of this affair has been 
given to any one but the parties concerned, as I 
would not for the world, yes, ten worlds, have a word 
breathed against a name I hold as sacred as my 
mother’s, and as dear as life itself.” 

“My dear fellow, we are obliged to keep the thing 
quiet,” returned the stranger, smoothing his silk hat. 
“Of course I believe in the code ; yes, sir. I’m a great 
stickler for ‘hona.’ Still, we have tried to persuade 
Carst to let the matter drop ; if he’s the survivor, it 
is bound to kill his chances for congress; bound to 
kill him politically. 

Nelson made no reply, but walked the floor in 
silence. 

“It is all right, I suppose,” said the stranger, open- 
ing the door. 

“Yes, perfectly satisfactory; I accept the chal- 
lenge,” answered Nelson, bowing the stranger out. 

“By George, a deucedly cool fellow,” said the 
stranger to himself, as he walked down the path to 
the gate, “lots of courage there, too fine a chest for a 
piece of cold steel to be lodged in, and all for the sake 
of a petticoat. Always thought those artists and 
poetical fellows, a kind of womanish ; but, damn me, 
if he won’t hold his own with Carst.” And the 
stranger twirled his cane, around and around, in his 
dainty gloved hand. 

After the stranger left. Nelson continued his pacing 


304 


In the Market Place. 


lip and down the floor for some time; then seated 
himself at his desk. He wrote a long letter to his 
father and mother, which traced all that had passed 
between himself and Carrie, since their first meeting 
at the Capital, after their long separation. And that 
it was no fault of his, and not to fear, his hand should 
not be the one to strike down her husband. He told 
his mother what to do in case he should fall by Carst's 
bullet ; and closed with all the endearing names a son 
might pen to a beloved mother, whom he might never 
see again. Then he wrote to Carl, and last of all to 
Gartha. When he finished, he directed and sealed 
them and left them on his desk. He was dressed in 
his every-day studio clothes, as he stopped in the hall 
to get his hat, and from there he went to the sitting- 
room where he found his mother seated by the win- 
dow sewing. ‘‘Good-by, mother,’’ he said, going to- 
wards her, and taking his place by her side in his 
usual boyish way, “I’m going out to make a few 
sketches.” She gazed up in his face in wonder, think- 
ing it strange of him to be going out in the heat of 
the day to make sketches, a thing she never knew 
him to do, but she said nothing. He turned and left 
her and went to the garden, where his father was 
weeding his beets. 

“Good-by, father,” he said, hurrying past him, 
down the path, and out the garden gate. “Good-by, 
my son,” answered Peter, who thought no more of it. 

iNelson walked rapidly until he came to the Avenue 
E, where he took an electric car, for down town. He 
got out at one of the thoroughfares, and stopped be- 


Sunrise. 


305 


fore a large building used for offices. Here he got 
into the elevator and was carried to the fifth story, 
that was used for offices, and lodging rooms, occu- 
pied generally by young clerks, in the offices. Here, 
in bachelor quarters, dwelt an old school-mate of his, 
whom he had not seen for several years ; he had a 
good deal of experience in fire-arms, and when boys 
they often went hunting together. He found him i;i 
his room writing. 

‘'Hello, Lawrie, haven’t seen you for an age,” he 
said, dropping his pen. “I thought you were too 
much taken up with art, and other aerial pursuits, for 
a fellow ever to set eyes on you.” 

Nelson threw himself into a chair, and after chat- 
ting a while about old times, told his friend his errand, 
and the whole story of his trouble, which was quite a 
surprise to the young man ; as Lawrie, in his friend’s 
language, “Was one of the very exemplary boys, you 
know, a-h-mm.” They remained together all night, 
so as to be on hand the next morning. 

Laurence Carst had challenged Nelson Lawrie to 
fight until one or the other should fall dead on the 
field. Madame had worked on a mind already sus- 
picious, jealous, and cynical; he believed the worst of 
his wife. She loved this man before her marriage, 
and she loved him still ; and according to his standard 
of morality, there could be no innocence, no chastity, 
in such a love. And just at the time when he was 
trying to rid himself of the woman who had held him 
so long her slave ; who had entangled him in her soft, 
silken meshes, until they could never be unravelled. 

20 


In the Market Place. 


306 

At the moment when he most desired to take his wife 
and child to his heart ; when the nation was beginning 
to recognize his talents, and confer upon him the 
honor his talents deserved. This revelation of his 
wife’s unfaithfulness, as he thought, was unbearable. 
It is impossible for the slave to wrench asunder by 
one blow his chains, and drop them forever; the 
sound of their chink, lingers long with him, and it is 
years before he emerges a free man. 

Laurence Carst was a slave to his desires, year by 
year they had forged the links in the chain, that 
weighted down body and soul, until he became so piti- 
lessly weak that resistance was impossible. His jeal- 
ous rage, his thirst for vengeance, overcame every 
other consideration. He was a gentleman, he would 
spill the last drop of blood of the man, who dared to 
cast dishonor on his name. His friends to whom he 
confided the matter, tried to persuade him to let the 
whole thing drop, to pass it over, as if it had never 
happened. Jim Gilson worked with him one whole 
long night to show him the utter sillliness of a duel 
with the artist, because the young man paid a little 
over-attention to his beautiful wife. All warned him 
that it would kill his chances for congress and the 
United States Senate. But he would listen to no ar- 
gument or advice, that would dissuade him from what 
he was bent on. One or the other must die. Here, 
again, Carst was unlike Lord Hastings, whom he re- 
sembled in many of his brilliant gifts, ‘'that in his sub- 
jection to the influence of women, he had not, like 
Hastings, learned the government of men or himself.” 


Sunrise. 


307 


We must now return to the cottage of our heroine, 
her home on the hill. The evening was quite sultry, 
and windows and doors stood open; Arthur had left 
on the afternoon train for a town about twenty-five 
miles distant, where he had an engagement to lecture 
on the beauty in art, at the closing exercises of the 
college, which makes that town famous. It was after 
tea and Gartha was seated on the front porch, she was 
clad in a loose robe of white mull, a few forget-me- 
nots nestled in the lace at her throat. She had pon- 
dered over the strange, but sad, incident of the night 
before; she must warn Nelson there was danger of 
scandal, and that unscrupulous woman was plotting 
against him and Carrie. No matter how honorable 
their intentions, she had long ago learned that the 
world would not look on their friendship, in the Pla- 
tonic light ; and it was safest for both to keep apart. 
The world is apt to turn aside from the good, and at 
anything which looks suspicious, put on its magnify- 
ing glasses and cry, ‘‘Horrors.” It never stops to 
think or to ask the cause that prompted the act. 
Would we have done differently had we been in their 
places? We are startled by great social calamities, 
shocked by some terrible crime of crimes, by men in 
low and high places. We forget that little by little 
things accumulate, and it is step by step, down the 
pathway to degradation. Then comes something at 
the ripe moment, which culminates in a tragedy so 
awful that the heart stands still, and the blood seems 
like ice in our veins. And we cry out, can such things 
be ? Alas, poor, blind bats, blind because we will not 


3o8 


in the Market Place. 


see; they are going on around us, every day, they 
happen under our very noses, we stumble over them 
in our walks, they are going on in our very homes. 
Yet we close our eyes to them, we wish to see only the 
pleasant side of things, and not one hand, one finger, 
will we raise to restrict, or restrain them. That beau- 
tiful sun sheds its light on alleys and by streets of 
poverty, where people are crowded like cattle ; houses 
of vice, and mansions of luxury and shame, which 
create a miasma that comes stealing into our homes, 
and strikes down our sweetest and fairest flowers and 
they die. Such is sin. 

Gartha sat thinking thus, until the feeling of some 
overshadowing evil was upon her. She rose and went 
to the gate, where Effie stood — Effie, still strange and 
mysterious to her. Try as she would she could not 
overcome a certain repugnance to the girl. She stood 
awhile debating with herself, whether or not to run 
over to Tanglewood, but feeling tired, she would put 
her visit off until morning, and by that time Nelson 
would be more composed, after a good night^s rest. 
She left the gate, and went back to the porch and 
seated herself in one of the willow chairs ; Effie fol- 
lowed her and sat down on the upper step, and began 
running on in her chattering way, until feeling sleepy 
she rose and went to her room. Gartha rose also and 
went into the house, and commenced closing the win- 
dows and doors of the parlor. She crossed the hall 
to the dining-room, where she saw by the clock on 
the mantlepiece that it was a quarter to ten. From 
there she went to the kitchen to give some order to 


Sunrise. 


309 


the girl about breakfast, and returned to the dining- 
room again, and stood in the open doorway that led 
out to a small piazza. 

How silent and tender the night was, yet with a 
gentle melody of its own, which made the deepening 
shadows, a soft harmony to the violet arch above, 
with its grandeur of illumining lights, still mysterious 
to man. She closed the door, yes she would leave 
the dining-room window open, as there was a cool 
breeze coming that way. She took the lamp that 
burned on the table, and went to her own room, which 
opened off the dining-room. She set the lamp on her 
dressing-case, turned it low, then laid down on the 
sofa, to rest and think, a habit with her before retiring 
for the night. 

A strong feeling of regret took possession of her 
that she did not go to Tanglewood; she had never 
before felt the desire so strong upon her to see Nel- 
son. It was not so late yet, still it was dangerous to 
go by the pathway at that hour, and more risky to go 
through the field, and she would have to cross fences. 
Nelson never seemed dearer to her than now, and for 
a moment, and it was but momentarily, the thought 
flashed upon her, as it had often upon Nelson, since 
Carrie's marriage. (How blind they both had been.) 
Ah, yes, there are few of us but what are blind at 
times. The next instant they were with her husband. 
He had finished his lecture by this time ; she was sure 
it was a success ; how could it be otherwise. And all 
the young students, girls and boys, were gathering 
about him, admiring him for his talents and himself 


310 


In the Market Place. 


personally; how could they help it. Oh, if he were 
only kinder to her, and had a little more sympathy 
with her, and her aims, how different her life would 
be ; — yes — oh, so very different. She fell into a sound 
sleep, how long she had slept she knew not, when she 
heard a voice calling her name. She rose to a sitting 
posture, and saw through the windows that the day 
was breaking, and Carrie standing over her, with 
burning eyes, dishevelled hair, and little Mary in her 
arms. 

‘‘Rise, Gartha, oh, Gartha, fly ; oh, my friend, save 
them both. Do not let their blood fall on the head of 
my child, do not let her father spill the blood of Nel- 
son; do not let Nelson stain his hands with the blood 
of my child’s father. I could not bear it, it would 
place an impassable gulf between us all the years of 
our lives. Oh, Gartha, morning star, my good angel, 
you alone can stop this wretched duel. Charlotte 
says it is to take place on the hill back of the little 
church, at runrise. Frank overheard the conversa- 
tion in the library. I would rather Nelson should fall, 
than he should be the slayer of my child’s father ; you 
know why.” 

Gartha jumped from her couch, pale as the robe 
she wore, and stood for a second silent with arms 
raised above her head ; then, as if putting sleep aside, 
she cried: “Nelson, a murderer; Nelson to be shot 
down as if his life was of no more worth than a wild 
beast’s. Oh, my Father in Heaven, it must be the 
work of that bad woman.” 

She bound up her hair, picked up a white shawl 


Sunrise. 


311 


that lay across the back of a chair, and threw it 
around her shoulders, raised the window and stepped 
out. In a moment she was lost sight of among the 
trees. 

Then Carrie observed a faint glimmer of the sun 
through the shutters, and she sank down on the floor 
111 a swoon. 

Gartha sped on as fast as her fleet limbs could carry 
her. When she got within fifty paces of the place she 
saw Nelson and Carst standing face to face. The low 
eastern sky resembled a rose-tinted sea, dyeing the 
earth in its glow. Higher and higher the sun asended 
like a great dancing ball of orange and faint crimson, 
in the midst of long waves of pale gold, their edges 
lined with white feathery fleece. Peacefully beyond 
lay the sloping hills, sleeping in that indescribable 
violet-rose light, which is never to be seen only at 
dawn, and in the early summer season. Peacefully 
wound the river, onward, onward, like a moving sheet 
of peach-bloom. ‘'Oh, fair earth, beautiful to behold, 
have you no power to temper the hearts and passions 
of men?’’ cried Gartha, as her eyes drank in all this 
glory. She came upon them unpercieved, just as the 
seconds were handing them their weapons, and 
stepped like a white-robed angel of the morning be- 
tween them. With outstretched arms, she stood like 
some messenger of the dawn, with all the splendor of 
the rose and orange light falling about her, falling on 
her hair, which had partially become unbound, tinge- 
ing it to a mass of glistening bronze, falling on the 
faces of the two men, one of them with murder in his 


312 


In the Market Place. 


heart, crying for the blood of his opponent. Oh, re- 
venge, what a terrible monster thou art, what deadly 
sins dost thou not lead to! She stood, her whole 
body quivering with emotion, at sight of Carst and 
Nelson, at the grandeur of the scene before her and 
around her. Then she turned her eyes in pity on 
Carst. 

''Stay thy hand,’’ she cried, "wouldst you on this 
fair, peaceful morning, when the earth seems only a 
fit abode for angels, would you in the presence of that 
glory,” she pointed to the sun, "a glory that can re- 
semble nothing but the face of God, would you spill 
the blood of your brother? You want to vindicate 
your honor ; was it honor when you stood before the 
altar of God, holding the hand that was pure and 
stainless, plighting vows to love and cherish the 
young life she was giving into your keeping? Was 
it honor to deceive her? She may not have given 
you her first love, but she gave you a body, as pure 
and white as the orange blossoms that crowned her 
brow. Was it honor to still continue to deceive your 
wife, after your marriage, and keep up your associa- 
tions with the woman who urged your marriage on, 
when she found she could not prevent it, so that she 
might have the benefit of your wife’s fortune. And 
who has ever since incited you on to suspect your 
wife’s innocence, and by plans and plots, incited you 
to jealousy, hate, and revenge? And what has she 
brought you to? Here on this beautiful morning, 
earth and sky glad with the glory of the rising sun, 
the orb, which millions of men have fallen prostrate 


Sunrise. 


313 


before ; glad with the voices of the air, singing praises 
to God, you would stain your hands with blood, that 
would fall on the head of your child, and innocent 
wife. Oh,’’ she cried, with uplifted hands, and gazing 
before her, ‘'call it the code, call it honor, or what you 
may, it is still murder crying to heaven for vengeance. 
Man in his arrogance, passions and pride, has no 
right to take life, which he cannot give.” She turned 
to him again. “Do you call it honor,” she went on in 
still more pleading tones, “to have your wife’s un- 
sullied name tossed about from mouth to mouth, from 
lip to lip, as lightly as a soap-bubble that scatters be- 
fore it falls ; to have it bandied on the streets, by the 
fast men about town; to have it spoken of with a 
sneer, the significant cough ; to have it the gossip of 
idle women, the talk of the clubs, heralded by news- 
papers, until it is the light gibe of every tongue. No, 
this is not man’s honor, it is his vanity, his passions, 
that cry for revenge. Man’s honor is to protect and 
shield the name of his wife, the mother of his children. 
If she has wronged him, to still protect and shield 
her, by never breathing aught against her, by his 
everlasting silence in regard to her sin. This is man’s 
honor, this is man’s bravery, all else is cowardice, a 
bravado, which comes from a false education, a spe- 
cies of barbarism.” 

Laurence Carst stood, pale and trembling, the cold 
steely glitter of his eyes had softened as he gazed 
upon her, the thin compressed lips had relaxed; one 
hand had fallen at his side, while the other toyed 
nervously with his pistol. Higher and higher, the 


3H 


In the Market Place. 


sun ascended, stealing up the river banks, making 
slanting rays and slender, cool shadows, upon long, 
drowsy streets; creeping into the low windows and 
doors of small, dingy dwellings ; kissing the fair brows 
and naked feet of the poor children that slept on their 
sills for air. Dancing along brick walls, and making 
golden ripples in narrow court-yards, where babes in 
their innocent glee try to catch at them with tiny 
hands. 

She turned to Nelson and rested her eyes upon his 
face, those clear, beautiful eyes, which told him how 
precious his life was to her. He stood calm, cold and 
determined. 

'Xook,’' she said, pointing to the east, not in the 
pleading tones she used to Carst, but rather in one of 
command, ^‘would you, in the midst of all this splen- 
dor, the glory of the awakening day, the joy of the 
morning falling around you, throw away a life with 
no stain upon it ; one that has been all purity and no- 
bility, and so full of promise for the future? Such a 
life to be snapped from the world and those who love 
it, to satisfy a bravado, that men call honor? Have 
you, also the same vanity, which makes men fear to 
be called cowards, when it is this very fear that makes 
cowards of them? No, it is not bravery to stand up 
and be shot down like a wild beast, and dye your 
hands with the blood of your brother; it is not 
bravery for one man to challenge another for the 
wrong committed by a woman. She is no doll, no 
puppet, but a responsible being, to be held account- 
able for what sb<e does. Besides, no man’s life is his 


Sunrise. 


315 

to dispose of, it belongs to God. He gave it and He 
taketh it away.’’ She folded her arms over her bosom, 
higher and higher the sun rose over the hills, dispell- 
ing the mist over the river that danced and rippled 
in its radiance, over the long line of steamers, that 
strewed its banks, streaking their masts and tall chim- 
neys, which sent forth clouds of smoke, curling up, 
up, into the opal haze. Higher and higher it rose, 
gilding the domes, of stately buildings, of church 
spires, that gleamed and flashed like scintillating 
gems ; lighting up the stolid faces of groups of work- 
men, who saw no wonder in that wonder of wonders, 
sunrise. 

She stretched out her arms, looked at Carst then at 
Nelson, then raised them above her head, clasped her 
hands, and said, ‘Teace, I beseech you.” 

Two shots were fired in the air, two pistols fell to 
the ground, two hands clasped and Gartha turned 
quickly and walked towards home. Nelson hurried 
on his coat, while his companion picked up his 
weapon; then both stepped into their carriage and 
gave the man on the box orders to drive them to 
No. — C street, as quickly as possible. 

Carst’s second, the stranger, was so dumfounded, 
that he could do nothing but stare. ‘‘By George,” he 
muttered to himself after several minutes, “if it isn’t 
the deucedest, strangest, termination to an affair of 
honor I ever saw. D — mn me, if it isn’t just like 
women; they will lead a man on to perdition, and 
when he’s on the brink of tumbling right over with 
his boots on, some one of them, will come along and 


In the Market Place, 


316 

pull him out. I wonder where that apparition came 
from ; she was deucedly good looking, anyway, and a 
man can forgive a woman for much, if she’s that. 
Yes, d — mn me, even for preaching, and spoiling an 
affair of honor.” 

Carst did not wait for his companion, but started 
on down the hill, his carriage stood below to one side, 
hidden by a large oak tree. He was afraid he would 
not arrive at home before the city began to awaken. 
As he walked down the path, many thoughts crowded 
upon his mind, his whole past rose up before him ; 
how thankful he was that this Gartha, his wife’s girl 
friend, and now doubly so, had saved him ; he did not 
know or believe there was so much goodness and 
purity in woman. They can be either as high as 
heaven, or as low as hell. He was determined now to 
rid himself of the woman who had enslaved him, he 
hated her, he would defy her, then let her do her 
worst; he was ready to face the world with his sin. 
Had he killed this young artist, it would have ruined 
his whole career, he could never have been elected to 
congress. Life was never sweeter to him than now ; 
yes, he would from henceforth make the best of his 
brilliant talents. And there came over him a deep 
tenderness for his wife and child, a feeling he had 
never experienced in regard to his wife, took pos- 
session of him. Was it love, or something like it? 
Yes, the other was passion, desire, a frenzied, hateful 
thing, that had deadened and silenced all the moral 
force in him. Yes, he would, when he reached home, 
throw himself at his wife’s feet, and beg her forgive- 


Sunrise. 


317 

ness. He had come to the bottom of the hill, and 
was within a few feet of his carriage, when he tripped 
and stumbled over a large rock, throwing his chest 
full force against the trunk of the tree. The two men, 
his seconds, who were following on behind, saw him 
fall and heard the report of a pistol, and hurried to his 
side; he had rolled over on his back, and the blood 
was oozing from his mouth. 

Yes, Laurence Carst was dead, shot to the heart 
by a ball from a pistol he had concealed in the breast 
pocket of his coat, in case the one his seconds 
brought failed to do its deadly work, for he intended 
to kill Nelson Lawrie. While Nelson, on the other 
hand, had told his friend that he would snap his pistol 
in the air; if Carst killed him, it would be all right, 
and if not, there would be no harm done. Yes, Lau- 
rence Carst was dead, dead to his sins, his passions, 
his worldly ambitions, and the false honor which 
nothing could appease but the blood of the man who 
he thought injured him. The eyes that flashed with 
scorn and hate upon his opponent, and would have 
taken his life, before Gartha came upon the scene, 
with as little regret as he would have drank his 
coffee afterward, will never more look upon a morn- 
ing so fair, never more on God’s beautiful earth. The 
long aristocratic nose is pinched and sunken, the firm 
lips are drawn, showing a little of the gleaming white 
teeth. Let men prate as they may, the wages of sin 
is death. 

The two gentlemen raised Laurence from the 
ground, and placed him in the carriage, and gave 


In the Market Place. 


318 

orders to the driver to keep on the outskirts of the 
city, and to get to Judge Van Court’s residence as 
quickly as possible. 

When they arrived at Forest Grove, the two gentle- 
men got out to open the gate to let the carriage pass 
through. As they did the Judge, who had been awak- 
ened by his daughter, after she returned home, and 
had informed her father of th^ whole proceedings, 
and what Mrs. Lowell had done in stopping the duel. 
Though a believer in the code, he was shocked at what 
Carrie had related, but felt a great relief at the way 
the aflfair terminated, as he supposed. When he 
learned the after result, his dignity and pride left him, 
he became deadly pale, and seemed to age twenty 
years. He was not prepared to see the dead body of 
his son-in-law, and he stood before it white, stunned 
and speechless. They carried Carst’s body to the 
library and sent for a physician. He found the pistol 
in the breast pocket of his vest; the ball had pene- 
trated the arteries and lodged in the heart. 

The newspapers reported that the Honorable Lau- 
rence Carst, a member of the state senate, and nomi- 
nated for congress, had been out the evening before 
with a party of friends. It being late when returning 
home, and not having his own carriage and driver, 
the party got into a hack; the man on tne box, not 
being acquainted with the suburbs, as he was a 
stranger in the city, became entangled in the trees in 
a side road. Finding themselves in this predicament, 
they concluded to leave the hack and light their 
cigars, while the driver extricated his horses, and got 


Sunrise. 


319 


them into the main road. During the time Laurence 
Carst wandered off by himself, and on returning to 
the carriage, his foot hit against a rock, tripping him 
over, he fell, vStriking his chest against a tree trunk, 
exploding a pistol he carried in the breast pocket of 
his coat, the ball entering the heart, causing instan- 
taneous death. This was the explanation given to the 
public, which was true in all respects save the duel. 
No one outside the parties concerned had heard of 
the duel, no one then, or ever afterwards, had the 
least suspicion that anything of the kind had taken 
place. As there never had been a light word spoken 
of Mrs. Carst, and very few of her set knew anything 
of Nelson Lawrie, except through his work and repu- 
tation as a painter. 

When Carrie left her father’s room, she went to her 
own, and threw herself on a sofa to rest for an hour 
or two ; she had not been there more than ten minutes 
when she heard a carriage drive up the avenue, and 
in a few seconds Frank, the butler, knocked at her 
door and said she was wanted down stairs. She was 
very quiet, very pale, a little too quiet, when she saw 
her dead husband, until they told her the particulars. 
A.fter they had taken him up stairs to his own room 
and laid him on his own bed, what her thoughts, her 
feelings were, as she stood over him, pale and cold, 
with dry, hot eyes, we cannot say ; we only know that 
she sent up a prayer of thanks that it was not Nelson 
Lawrie’s hand that had taken her husband’s life. And 
when little Mary crept into the room, crying, ‘‘papa, 
papa,’’ she picked her up in her arms, kissed her, and 


310 In the Market Place. 

went out and was not seen again until the day of the 
funeral. After the funeral she retired to her room 
and w^as not seen by any in the house for weeks, ex- 
cepting her father, and Charlotte, who attended upon 
her. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


peace: makers, and peace breakers. 

Three months have come and gone since they 
brought Laurence Carst home dead. Forest Grove is 
again deserted, with the exception of Frank, its black 
steward, and family. The old mansion stands grim 
and silent, with bolted doors and barred windows, in 
the midst of its stately trees, that still ring with the 
melody of birds. Mrs. Carst, with her father, little 
Mary and Charlotte, her nurse, left for Europe two 
months after her husband’s death. Carst left a will 
bequeathing his whole estate to be divided equally 
between his wife and daughter. The property was 
heavily mortgaged, as he had raised considerable 
money on his farms and real estate since his mar- 
riage. Little Mrs. Topping accompanied the family, 
as she found her own country intolerable since she 
was prevented by the death of Carst, from living in 
Washington, and meeting those very distinguished 
foreigners. After Topping’s husband’s death, she 
had placed her money in the hands of the Judge to 
invest, and fortunate for her he belonged to the old 
regime, who instead of appropriating her fortune to 
speculation and his own use, had managed it so well 
that her income was quite large. She did not know 
21 321 


322 


In the Market Place. 


what to do with her two boys, but the Judge came to 
her aid here. He advised her to send them to college 
until they were of age, then give them one or two 
years’ travel before they settled down to whatever 
they desired to follow in the way of business or a 
profession. Since then there has been a breeze wafted 
from over the sea that Topping, not finding an easy 
entree into the circles of the nobility, as she expected, 
joined those dear, delightful, soul-inspiring people, 
‘‘artistic people, people who are so very odd, and 
clever, you know.” 

When Carst left the world so unexpectedly, Ma- 
dame Bogardus’ crown was snatched from her brow, 
and the scepter from her hand, and she fell down, 
and great was the fall thereof. She fell from her high 
place, from the throne where she had reigned so long, 
and not one loyal subject turned a pitying glance 
upon her. Society, that crowded her balls and recep- 
tions, that drank her rare, foreign wines, as lavishly 
as the common herd drink water, knew her no more ; 
no more than if she had been a crawling worm at 
their feet. Still, women like Madame Bogardus, are 
not to be crushed or gotten rid of so easily ; no more 
than any other great evil, society makes for itself. 
Women like Madame Bogardus are the product of 
society, society made her, and society must bear the 
consequences. So Madame Bogardus still continued 
to live in the old house, she kept away from society 
fcr awhile, at least society kept away from her, for 
society is human if it is thick-skinned. Madame will 
found another kingdom and make subjects, and many 


Peace Makers, and Peace Breakers. 323 

willing slaves will come and go at her command ; she 
will pursue her way, lower, lower, never a step higher. 

Gartha, after the death of Carst, which saddened 
her for many days, and the feeling of loneliness which 
followed Carrie’s departure for Europe, settled down 
once again to the old routine life. Still, there was no 
day passed that she did not visit the cottage. To 
Peter and Mrs. Lawrie the day would seem a blank, 
if Gartha did not spend the usual hour or two with 
them. She had taken something of the place in their 
hearts, of the gentle daughter who had gone. Her 
coming was also the bright spot in Carl’s afternoons. 
Sometimes he would walk home with her, carrying 
in his hand his old and constant companion, his flute. 
He would often spend the evening, taking tea with 
them, and after tea, chatting pleasantly on the porch, 
and playing his favorite airs. It would be hard to 
divine the place Gartha held in Nelson’s mind and 
heart, since the morning of the duel ; he hardly knew 
himself, she had risen so far above anything he had 
ever expected, that a life’s long homage and rever- 
ence could never repay the act. He would never 
forget that morning, no, not until memory died within 
him, and his eyes were closed in their long sleep. He 
was glad he had lived to see it, glad that it had come 
into his life, so long as there was no slaying done, the 
scene of the breaking of dawn, could never be effaced 
from mind or soul. It had shown him also what 
power women held, for good or evil, over the lives of 
men. He knew she was not happy with her husband 
^nd it grieved his soul to see it; he knew, too, the 


3H 


In the Market Place. 


shadow which had fallen on her life, had never come 
without a cause, and that she was too sensible, too 
womanly, to allow trifles to trouble her. And it was 
now more than ever apparent that she was extremely 
wretched ; he saw this by her listlessness, the indiffer- 
ence to her home, and all former things of interest. 

One day he said to his mother, they were in the 
studio, having one of their confidential chats, which 
they were in the habit of indulging in when there was 
no one by but themselves. “Yes, indeed, mother, I 
have always felt that Lowell was not the husband for 
Gartha ; still I think when he married her, he was as 
much in love with her as he could be with any 
woman.’’ 

“My son, it may be a notion of mine, but I do not 
like that girl, Effie Graham,” said Mrs. Lawrie, gaz- 
ing over her spectacles at her son’s back, for he was 
deep in the composition of a picture. “Young mar- 
ried people should live to themselves ; they are hap- 
pier. Gartha has never mentioned a word of her 
troubles to me, but lately she seems to be more un- 
happy than ever.” 

“I have never met Effie but once; then I had but 
a glimpse of her side face, as she stood at the gate of 
the Lowell Cottage, but it struck me that I had seen 
her before somewhere, either in reality or in my 
dreams. Still, I shouldn’t think the girl would have 
anything to do with Gartha’s troubles.” 

“It may be all a notion of mine, my son, but if Gar- 
tha ever gives me her confidence I will advise her to 
tell the girl to find another home,” 


Peace Makers, and Peace Breakers. 325 

If Arthur Lowell ever did love his wife, every ves- 
tige of it seemed to have disappeared in the last year. 
The passion, never strong in him, had little by little, 
day by day, waned, flickered and died. Perhaps he 
was unconscious of his cool, slighting manner to- 
wards her ; of at times barely noticing her, when the 
girl was by ; and at other times perfectly ignoring her 
presence, and giving his attention to Effle. Very 
often the reason for these slights was a secret re- 
venge for a difference of opinion, some eloquent 
thoughts spoken because she could no more help 
speak them than a stream could help flowing. Arthur 
would not like to have owned to himself that love in 
him was such a small component. Gartha was his 
wife, she could not help herself now, she had to grin 
and bear; besides he had no time for love, or these 
little courtesies that every wife should expect from a 
husband, that gild the rough edges, of their daily in- 
tercourse and make life sunnier and sweeter for both. 
Gartha’s dislike to Effle had increased ; nor could she 
help it, no matter how hard she tried, or reasoned 
with herself, that her dislike was wrong. 

^‘Effle is so childish in her ways,^’ she would some- 
times say to herself, when smarting under her hus- 
band’s cold cruelty, ^'and men are fond of youth, of 
rambling, chattering women ; she amuses him, I sup- 
pose, after the day’s labor is over.” 

But when things began to take a more serious 
shape, and she found Arthur getting further and fur- 
ther away from her, never spending a moment with 
her, treated by him and Effle as if she had no place in 


326 111 the Market Place. 

• 'I 

her home, out to take care of it, she would cry within 
herself : ‘'Oh, my husband, my love, my love, are you 
after all but human, the mere man, not the god-like 
being I made of you, that I set on such a high pedes- 
tal, and worshipped ? But I must not allow myself to 
harbor thoughts which are foreign to me; perhaps 
I ponder too much on these things ; perhaps I am too 
apt to make mountains out of trifles. Lord, I pray 
Thee give me peace.” Thus she questioned herself 
hour by hour, thus she prayed from her soul. She 
was a woman with all her intellect and ideality, that 
needed love, as a rare flower requires tender care and 
sunlight to bring it to perfection. 

Effie Graham had that quick instinct which is in- 
herent in every woman, bad or good, old or young; 
some more and some less. The instinct that can 
detect the power and weakness of her sister in the 
household, and can measure accurately the place she 
holds in her husband's or lover's affections. In the 
woman of Effie's type this instinct is more cunning 
and subtle ; she first makes a sure survey of the field, 
she has to work on, and her vanity lives, feeds, and 
is nourished upon her triumphs, as step by step, she 
dethrones her innocent victim. The culmination of 
Gartha's unhappiness can hardly, be called jealousy, 
the feeling or thing we define as jealousy seems to 
have its abode in narrow suspicious minds, minds that 
run in low channels, to have anything to do with so 
exalted a nature as hers. She was unhappy with 
Arthur before Effie came to their home, and she and 
Arthur were strong in their way ; but they were hus- 


Peace Makers, and Peace Breakers. 327 

band and wife, and love came in between, pouring its 
oil on the troubled waters. The love which he flung 
aside, and regarded as such a trifle, in endeavoring to 
absorb her individuality, and make it subservient to 
his will. It was this narrow, practical, dominant na- 
ture of Arthur’s, which tried to strip her of the ideality 
and beauty of mind, that he had no sympathy with, 
and resented when together almost with every breath. 
Then, when the girl, Effle, appeared on the scene, all 
her woman’s pride rose up, whatever she suffered in 
private, she would allow no other woman to be the 
daily witness of her humiliation. 

One morning she paid an earlier visit than usual to 
Tanglewood. Nelson was preparing for another jour- 
ney to Europe, it was to spend the winter in Paris. 
Judge Van Court had sent him a pressing invitation 
to come and take all the good he could out of a 
winter’s sojourn with them. He had rented a villa 
in the Paris suburbs for himself and family, which 
meant Mrs. Carst, nurse and child. Gartha stopped 
in the sitting-room talking with Mrs. Lawrie before 
going to the studio. Mrs. Lawrie observed the pallor 
of her face, and the strange expression in her eyes; 
it was as if all their light had suddenly died out, leav- 
ing them cold and hard. Nelson also observed this 
change, as she came into the studio. She threw her- 
self into a chair and began chatting in a lively, pleas- 
ant badinage, saying how awkward men were when 
they undertook to pack a trunk or valise, and once or 
twice she laughed, her old, low, sweet laugh ; and for 
a moment th^ color came to her cheek, and the light 


328 


In the Market Place. 


leaped to flame in her eyes. Nelson was kneeling on 
the floor, looking over some sketches, which he in- 
tended to take with him ; after a while he turned to an 
old valise that had done good service the last journey 
he made abroad, and began picking out old stubs of 
pencils, pieces of chalk, and rubber, and threw them 
at her feet. ‘^Keepsakes,’’ he said, laughingly, ^^some- 
thing to remember me by when I am out of sight, 
but I hope, not out of mind. Well, it’s all a poor devil 
of an artist has to give to a friend, or a sweetheart.” 

Then he threw some papers, on which he had drawn 
bare outlines, then a few water-colors, and an old 
sketch-book. ‘-There, you may find something good 
to look at in that,” he said, throwing it in her lap. 
She picked it up and began turning the leaves ; as her 
eyes chanced to rest on the face of a young girl, in a 
very picturesque costume, the color faded from her 
cheek, and she sat like one that had suddenly been 
bereft of all power of movement, speech or even to 
see or breathe. Then, bringing all her self-control to 
bear, she asked, but scarcely above a whisper, holding 
up to him the open book : “Where did you make that 
sketch?” 

“Is it so pleasing to you?” he said. He had risen 
and was standing by the window, with his back to her, 
examining an old water-color sketch, and thinking 
she had found something which interested her, and in 
her impulsive way was going to make a few eloquent 
remarks on its artistic merit. In the meantime he 
had taken a quick glance at the sketch, but not at 
Gartha’s face. ''Do you remember the tiight, I ex- 


Peace Makers, and Peace Breakers. 319 

pect you do well, you would not be likely to forget 
anything so important in your life. It was the night 
Arthur first called at this house ; well, you remember 
I walked down to the heart of the city with him, and 
parted from him, on the corner of M. and O. streets; 
as I walked home I passed a well-known concert gar- 
den in that vicinity. What a fearful hot night it was. 
Hearing some good music, I was tempted to go in, 
(I can never resist the delight it gives me to hear 
good music,) I found a seat in a secluded nook, where 
I had a good view of those who were seated around 
the tables ; and as I looked about my eye chanced to 
rest on that face. Her dress was in harmony with 
her face, and added a piquancy and picturesqueness 
to her whole ensemble, which struck my fancy, and 
I then and there made the drawing. The party was 
seated near me ; her companions were men and 
women that no man who respected himself would care 
to meet, let alone a good woman. They were, my 
Gartha, the sort we call questionable, and I wondered 
how apparently so much innocence and refinement 
came to be in that kind of society. I have never had 
but a glimpse of Effie, but her face, come to think of 
it now, is the counterpart of that sketch.’’ 

''Yes, it is Effie’s face,” said Gartha, half audiblyj 
rising to her feet, and letting the sketch-book drop 
from her hands on the floor. Nelson instantly turned 
towards her; her eyes were closed, her lips ashen, 
and she stood like one turned to stone. 

"Oh, Gartha, Gartha, my love, what is the matter?” 
cried Nelson, holding out his arms, to keep her from 


330 


In the Market Place. 


falling. ^'Gartha, my dear Gartha, my beautiful Gar- 
tha, what troubles you? Confide in me, I would lay 
down my life to serve you.’’ 

''It’s all over now, but there is one question I wish 
to ask you; keep nothing from me. Nelson, that you 
have any knowledge of concerning this matter? Do 
you think Arthur ever met those people, or knew 
anything of Effie’s history, before he brought her to 
our home?” 

"I do not think he did, I am sure he did not ; it must 
be as she and Arthur told you, the older woman ot 
the two I saw with her that evening was her aunt, 
and the other is now her guardian.” 

"That is all I care to know,” she said, holding her 
hand to her brow, her lips quivering from the pain, 
which was gnawing at her heart. ‘‘Say nothing of 
this to your mother ; I shall see you again before you 
leave; Arthur and myself will come over this even- 
ing.” 

"Yes, Effie must go,” she said to herself, as she 
walked down the path from Tanglewood, "it would be 
different if she were poor, besides in the last seven 
months she has had the best of examples.” 

When she reached her home, she went to her room ; 
how bright and beautiful it was, so full of the glad 
morning sunshine. How often had she taken refuge 
here with book or sewing, from her husband’s refined 
tyranny, that so crushed and lacerated her heart. She 
threw herself into a chair, and asked if in the long 
years to come she could bear what she had borne in 
the last few. She could never live over again the year 


Peace Makers, and Peace Breakers. 331 

that had passed. But she must, she was Arthur's 
wife, bound to him, pledged to him, at the altar of 
God, their love had sealed the compact, and no law, 
no court, no Judge, but death, could break it. 

‘'But, is it my duty to lay my heart at his feet, that 
he may trample it daily, as mercilessly as he would 
a crawling worm ? This heart so full of love for him, 
a love that would give up all and every purpose and 
aim in life ; that would make any sacrifice to help him 
to achieve the goal he wished to reach. A love that 
would be so happy in his, and that would endure to 
the end." And there came back to her over the past 
the echo of the earnest voice of the minister, and she 
heard again, the clear and distinct words, as on the 
morning she stood hand in hand with him in the little 
church, “Until death do us part, according to God's 
holy ordinance." She rose from her seat, paced the 
floor up and down, once or twice she stopped, raised 
her arms above her head, and cried, “Oh, my sister ; 
oh, Mary, sweet spirit, beloved of God, come to me, 
bring with you from Him, as you are nearer to Him, 
peace, peace, to my weary soul." She threw herself 
back into the chair, folded her arms and thus peace 
came to her for days. 

Had Gartha been older and her nature not so in- 
tense ; had she possessed less of the ideal, she would 
have seen and known long before that the battle with 
her husband, in trying to make him recognize her 
gifts of mind, through her affection and love for him, 
and vice versa, was at an end ; and the stronger and 
fiercer battle must be fought with herself. Had she 


332 


In the Market Place. 


known herself better, known her own strength, the 
power which is inherent in every woman, (for her 
love was the dagger which he stabbed her to the 
heart with hourly, and he cared little how deep it 
pierced, so that he was the conqueror), she would 
have day by day, week by week, month by month, 
and year by year, lulled love to sleep, and taken the 
higher and better thing called '‘duty,’’ as a guide ; 
then calmness, resignation, tranquillity of mind, would 
have been hers. And her husband would have found 
that the weapon he had so long used to stab her with 
had turned upon himself, and shattered his misused 
power. And love the jewel, the brightness of which 
had grown dim by possession, and which he thought 
such a trifle, \vould have taken a charm divine. 




CHAPTER IX. 


se)parate:d, but stiuu bound together. 

One morning, a few weeks after Nelson’s de- 
parture for Europe, Gartha and her family, which 
still consisted of herself, husband and Effie, were 
seated at the breakfast table. Gartha rose and went 
to her room for her handkerchief, leaving Arthur and 
Effie seated at the table; when she returned to the 
dining-room, Arthur and Effie had left the table, and 
were standing on the dining-room porch. As she 
took her seat again at the table, to finish her coffee, 
Arthur stepped down to leave for his school ; on his 
way out he tarried to pick a small bouquet of half- 
blown tea roses, from his wife’s favorite bush, and 
mingled with them some morning-glories that made 
dashes of varied color up the side of the house. He 
then returned to the porch, where Effie still stood, 
and handed her the bouquet. As he waved her a part- 
ing adieu, Effie raised the flowers to her lips ; it was 
a coquettish trifle, but trifles like these she had 
studied to perfection, and of course Arthur consid- 
ered his part but a simple act of gallantry. Mrs. 
Lowell from where she was seated saw it all and so 
could the actors in the little play see her from their 
place on the porch, and the insult was so deadly to 

333 


334 


In the Market Place. 


Gartha that she almost swooned, but she recovered 
herself, rose and went to her room. She had told Effie 
a few weeks before that she must find another home, 
but the girl had treated her request with indifference, 
as she expected ; still, Gartha hoped she would leave 
without trouble. She had not been in her room long 
when Ann, the servant, who had lived with her ever 
since her marriage, knocked at her door and asked 
if she would please step out to the kitchen a moment, 
the grocer man was waiting to take her order. 

Effie was seated in a low rocking-chair by the win- 
dow, humming the air of a song, and picking leaf by 
leaf the roses of her bouquet, and blowing them from 
her fingers onto the floor. As Gartha passed through 
the dining-room to the kitchen, Effie’s eyes caught 
the clear, straight gaze of Gartha, and they instantly 
dropped ; yet the girl was to a certain extent uncon- 
scious of her offense ;as Effie was one of those natures 
dead to all the delicate sensibilities which make finer 
natures suffer, from the sense of having given pain to 
others. As Gartha passed her again on her way back 
to her room, Effie, with some light word, offered 
Gartha her mutilated flowers. Gartha recoiled with a 
shudder, stopping for an instant in the middle of the 
floor; but it was for an instant only, hardly long 
enough to be perceived by Effie. But in that instant 
the girl became the most loathsome thing on earth 
to her. She would have at any time in her life, and 
rhe often did as much, taken by the hand the lowest 
of her sex, and led them out of their haunts of vice 
and shame into the light, and the clean and healthful 


Separated, but Still Bound Together. 335 

roadways. But it came over her, and it was the cause 
of the shudder and recoil, that this girl, young and 
lovely though she was, was a deadlier foe to society 
than her sisters who traded daily their bodies, for the 
damning pittance, the price of their souls. She went 
to her room, once there the battle began that she 
must fight over and over, with herself. She prayed 
for patience, guidance and light to see which path to 
take that led to freedom and peace. She remained in 
her room until the sun was low in the heavens. 

When her husband came home in the evening, she 
was awaiting him on the front porch ; she greeted him 
with her usual smile of welcome. We must state 
here that whatever Effie’s coquetting with Arthur 
might have led to in the future, if there had no climax 
interfered, he was at this time too cool-headed, to be 
led away from his work and his dream of success, by 
any attraction, no matter how great. He was sure of 
Gartha, a woman like her was not going to give up 
for trifles, the home and comforts he provided for 
her, and as for himself, he did not wish any severance 
of the tie ; he could not afford to lose a wife who held 
such a high place in the community they both moved 
in. But he would punish her for her resistance and 
let her see that he was master. And as for Effie she 
pleased his senses, she was so charming, so full of by- 
play; it was a recreation to let his fancy drift away 
with the sportive vagaries of this child woman. These 
were often his thoughts, therefore Arthur had a de- 
liberate purpose in the course he took with his wife ; 
and he found Effie a convenient instrument to carry 


336 


In the Market Place. 


it out, as he supposed. He wished to mould Gartha 
to his will, to see with his eyes, to breathe through 
his nostrils ; to warp her to his woof. And had he 
succeeded he could not have loved or respected the 
pitiable thing he would have fashioned from his own 
tools. 

Gartha talked pleasantly at the dinner table, her 
mood was gayer than for some days past, and she 
was kindly attentive to Effie. She was of too large 
and generous a nature to take the advantage which 
was hers, to inflict petty annoyance on the girl in her 
own house. After dinner Gartha went to her room, 
and seated herself by the west window, which gave 
her a view of the little church. Long, slender beams 
of reddish gold illumined its steeple, and fell upon 
its vine covered sides ; the gentle evening breeze 
stirred their leaves into masses of burnished russet. 
On a distant tree she heard the soft cooing of the 
turtle dove, to its mate; ah, she was like it in the 
constancy of her affection. She sat watching the sun 
gradually lowering and changing, until only the spire 
of the little church glimmered in its crimson radiance. 
She rose and left the room, passed through the hall, 
out to the front gate, and stood debating with herself, 
whether to take a run over to Tanglewood. The twi- 
light was slowly receding into the dusk, and her dress 
which was thin white mull, would be too cool, be- 
sides Peter and Mrs. Lawrie retired earlier now than 
formerly, and she doubted if she would find Carl 
home. 

''Why am I so restless V she ask^d herself, "will my 


Separated, But Still Bound Together. 337 

home ever be beautiful to me as in the past? Will 
nothing still this fierce raging tumult within my 
breast, will confidence, trust, and peace ever be mine 
again?’’ This is not the life I dreamed of in my girl- 
hood ; the life my mother had taught me to aim for. 
As I look back now on my loneliness after the dear 
face had gone, and the hard, thorny path I would 
have chosen for myself, by which I hoped to climb to 
home, love, and eminence. Oh, how sweet it would 
have been after many years of toil and struggle, to 
have gained these by the friuts of my own labor. Then 
I would have never known but gladness, peace, and 
love, for every human thing. I would never have 
known this bitterness and pain, this shallowness and 
deceit, that falls on my heart, and chills it to the mar- 
row. Yet these things cannot be for long, the life cur- 
rent is too strong in me, the healthy blood must flow, 
again.” 

Oh, poverty art thou such a curse as men would 
have thee in these days of materialism ? The world’s 
work has never been done in the halls and gilded 
palaces of the rich, but in some small lodging in back 
streets, by the dim light of the lamp, when the world 
lay hushed in slumber. Thoughts have been penned 
which have sunk deep into the hearts of a people, 
deadened to apathy by suffering, sin, war and pestil- 
ence, and stirred them to lives of heroic deeds. It 
was poverty’s pen, which first kindled the flame of 
liberty in men’s hearts, and struck at the tyranny 
that starved their bodies, sapped their life blood, and 
shriveled their souls, until hungry eyed, and dark 
22 


338 


In the Market Place. 


visaged, they sought like hounds of prey, vengeance ; 
and a whole nation rose up and the multitudes cried 
for the rights, dignity and freedom of man. It was 
in poverty that science first lighted its lamp, and 
swept away Ignorance and superstition. It is in a six 
by ten work-shop that the inventor gives to his 
country that which brings millions to its coffers, and 
humanity blessed his name. It is in poverty that the 
artist’s soul is touched with inspiration, and his brain 
conceives, his hand executes, and works out his 
thoughts in glowing colors, and he leaves the world 
richer in its store-house of treasures. It is in an attic 
that he has beautified by a print and a pot of helio- 
trope that the poet first sings. 

Oh, poet sing your songs, no poverty can prevent 
your long walks in shady lanes, when the skies are 
blue and glad, and the tender grass is like down to 
your feet, and your brow is fanned by the warm 
breath of spring, the scent of clover, and new mown 
hay. Then that peaceful hour, fed not with bread, 
but the food of the spirit, when golden bars slant 
across the roadway, dotted with daffodils and 
daisies. When is heard the far-off lowing of 
cows, on their return home, the music of the 
gentle winds, soughing through a grove of pines, 
which is sweeter far than any ^olian harp; when 
the air resounds with the voices of the heavenly 
choir, and blends with the rustle of trees. Sing on, 
oh, poet, for it was poverty that gave us the babe in 
the manger, the divine incarnation, the light of the 


Separated, but Still Bound Together. 339 

[world, the King of Kings, the resurrection and the 
glory of the life to come. 

''Oh, poverty, must I also follow thee in my mis- 
sion?’’ she cried within herself, as she turned from 
her musings and left the gate. She walked down the 
path, passed the house, and went into the back yard. 
There stood at the far end to one side in a corner 
against a wicker fence, which ran along an alley, a 
large and old worm-eaten elm tree. The dust still 
lingered, loth to wrap about it the darker mantle of 
night, and as she neared the tree, which had wide, 
arching branches, she saw her husband and Effie 
standing under it. Effie’s head lay upon Arthur’s 
shoulder, she was crying and his hand stroked her 
hair ; as Gartha drew closer she could hear plainly her 
sobs, (or her pretended sobs,) and the voice of her 
husband came to her in distinct tones, and this is 
what she heard. That he was master in his own 
house, and that it was more of his wife’s desire to rule, 
and that she, Effie, could stay as long as he saw fit to 
have her. 

Gartha waited to hear no more, but went as fast 
as her tottering limbs and heavy feet could carry her 
to the house, and to her room and locked the door. 
All was over in that one moment, that one instant, 
she had made up her mind, nothing now could stop 
or stay her from her purpose ; no doom could make 
her retrace the step she was about to take. Her 
husband’s last words was the ball, as it were, which 
came sizzing with such force against her breast, spat- 


34 ^ 


In the Market Place. 


tering her heart’s blood, and killing all that remained 
of love and duty to him. She went to her bureau, 
pulled out the drawers, every article, trinket, every 
piece of jewelry he had given her in the past years, 
she took out, wrenched apart and threw them on the 
floor. She then went to her wardrobe, every gar- 
ment she had bought, every piece of clothing pur- 
chased by his money, she took from their hangings, 
tore them to shreds and threw them in a pile, not 
leaving one vestige together of the pretty dresses 
she had made with her own hands. Her white garden 
hat and knit shawl (also white) lay on the bed; she 
picked the shawl up and wrapped it around her shoul- 
ders, then her hat ; as she went to tie the strings 
under her chin, she saw the flash of her diamond be- 
trothal ring, she pulled it from her finger and threw 
it on the pile of clothing. But there was another ring, 
a plain band of gold; her wedding ring. She stood 
gazing upon it for a minute or two, then great silent 
tears came to her relief, and coursed down her cheeks 
and fell upon it, and the memory of that happy day 
came back ; her wedding day, when she stood, hand 
in hand, with him at the altar, sacred, holy day, when 
she gave him the love of her life, her soul. And again 
the voice of the minister rang in her ear, ‘'Until death 
us do part.” 

“Yes,” she cried, “until death us do part,” brushing 
the tears from her cheek, “still bound together, we 
must go, each our separate way, for no law, no court, 
can sever the tie. Yonder in the little cemetery. 


Separated, but Still Bound Together. 341 

sleeping side by side with Mary, lies the bond of our 
compact, the bond of nature and of God, my babe.” 

She turned the light low, went to the window, (it 
was the same window she flew through that beautiful 
dawn to the duel grounds,) stepped out and stole 
along the garden path to the gate, opened it and 
walked hurriedly away. She walked, not knowing 
where she went, until she found herself on the high- 
est hill, which lay to the south of Tanglewood ; then 
stood a moment to rest. To the north lay a clear, 
luminous sky with long waves of dark, redd sh golds 
and purples, fast fading into the gray; to the west 
the violet tinted heavens with its pale crescent moon 
gradually lighted its lamps. She looked down to- 
wards the City with its long streets lined with gas 
jets, the red and blue lights of its many moving rail 
cars flickering and twinkling in the distance. The 
city with its rush and scramble, ’ts selfishness, avarice 
and rapaciousness ; its poverty and extreme wealth, 
iis sin and the reeking slime of its crimes. There on 
the hill gazing down on its stately buildings and 
princely homes, its tall church spires, stood the white 
clad figure of a woman, looming up in the deepening 
glow of the horizon. Only a poor, weak v^oman, with 
hunger in her heart, a great love killed by treachery, 
her very wifehood crushed and humiliated by the 
dominant will of another. Only a woman striving 
against wrong, against all the conditions and con- 
ventions that hedge her in and around. A woman 
battling for the right, with no voice in the law, yet 


342 


In the Market Place. 


held amenable to every jot and tittle of the law; a 
woman thirsting and reaching after the unattainable. 
She pointed towards the City. ''There, down there,’' 
was her thought, "among the by-ways, the back 
streets, the alleys, there among the children of the 
poor, I shall find my mission, my life’s work. They 
will love and follow me, and into their minds I will 
sow the seeds of honesty, truth and the love of 
righteousness, and no knowing how many fair blos- 
soms they may bring forth and bloom into beautiful 
lives.” She clasped her hands above her head, and 
stood like an angel of the night, until the darkness, 
like the darkness in her heart, fell and closed around 
her. 


I i k 


BOOK III. 


CHAPTER I. 

POTIPHER JOHN GIEPHIN. 

Ale day the chill autumn rain beat upon the house- 
roofs, pitter-pattered on the window-panes, dripped 
and dripped from the maples and sycamores that 
lined with curbstones, while their dead leaves shook 
by the winds, fell silently to the gutter, and were car- 
ried by the stream which seemed to run apace with 
the human stream of the old city, that ebbed and 
flowed hither and thither, until lost in the grey of the 
October evening. It beat upon the Levee, that glis- 
tened like a road of silver, as it stretched along the 
Mississippi; upon the decks and sides of the white 
steamers, which lined its banks, their tall chimneys 
looming up like phantom ship-masts into the laden 
sky. It beat soft hushed tattoos, on the flat-boats 
and barges that rose and fell, dipped and swipped, 
with the swell and sway of the river. It swished 
against the iron shutters of the dingy warehouses, 
which were massed together like great, frowning 
fortresses, their dark shadows falling upon and 
throwing all surrounding objects into gloom. Then 
the rain and the wind locked arms, and came down 

343 


344 


In the Market Place. 


a long narrow alley, blowing a musical whistle, turned 
a corner and dashed its spray upon a high, grim five- 
story building, that the electric lights from the bridge 
spanning the mighty waters flashed full upon its 
front, showing plainly the letters upon the sign above 
its doors and windows, which read, ‘Totipher J. 
Gilphin & Co., Wholesade & Retail Boat Supplies. ’ 
Then it blew a sweep of wet drops into the ears and 
upon the cheek of a man, standing in the doorway. 
He was giving some orders to the two porters of the 
place, before leaving for the night. He was a man 
of medium height, but slender and of almost perfect 
build; he had hot yet passed the boundary line of 
forty, or forty-two years of age. Though thought 
and care and the ups and downs of life, the battles 
which had been fought and won, since the day he left 
his mother’s home, when but a mere urchin, to earn 
a pittance in the office of a large manufacturing 
establishment in his own New England Village, had 
seamed a forehead, where dark blue kindly eyes, set 
deep under dark, square brows, and character marked 
every line of his plain face. Before leaving, he took 
the sleeve of a light gray overcoat, which he held 
thrown over his right arm, and drew it up over his 
left arm, which we are sorry to say was handless ; 
then, with a quick motion, he thrust his right arm 
into the right sleeve, buttoned it across his chest, and 
stepped out into the rainy October night. 

The reader may think that Potipher John Gilphin, 
with his unprepossessing name, his slight stature, his 
handless left arm and plain but interesting face, will 


345 


Potipher John Gilphin. 

be anything but an attractive personage — as he will 
figure prominently in this history, from now until its 
close. I assure you, dear reader, if you care for 
nature, the natural homely life around us, for men 
and women, who live, breathe and have their being; 
and for a man like yourself, who has stood resolute 
in climbing life’s hill; who has suffered its pains, 
borne its sorrows; felt its poetry, tasted of its joys 
and loves, I am sure you will like Potipher John Gil- 
phin. Yes, from the day when sixteen years old, 
when an apprentice in the machine shop of the estab- 
lishment where he first went as an office boy at the 
age of twelve, he had his left hand cut off as clean, 
from the wrist, as if a surgeon’s knife had done it. 
With the exception of the few months he lay in the 
hospital, he had with his right hand steadily climbed 
up the rungs of the ladder of success to a fortune, 
and the head of the large wholesale and retail firm of 
Potipher J. Gilphin & Co., Boat supplies, which 
meant in those days, when the great passenger steam- 
ers plied the Mississippi, everything from a hammer 
and a box of tacks to the finest teas, coffees, sugars, 
canned and dried fruits; imported liquors, and so 
forth. To where we see him at two and forty years, 
standing in the door of his warehouse, the last to 
leave, with the exception of the two porters and the 
night watchman, whose business it was to lock up. 

Let us precede Potipher Gilphin to his home in the 
southwest suburbs, he has taken the quickest way to 
arrive there, that science has yet achieved in street 
travel, the electric-car. But thought travels faster^ 


346 


In the Market Place. 


we have but to think and in the twinkle of an eye we 
are there in mind. But we must state first, as we 
must also follow the vicissitudes of our heroine, the 
scenes of this history shift to another part of the old 
ctiy. I am not going to take you to one of those 
big, pretentious modern Queen Anne mansions. But 
you will exclaim, ‘'The writer said, he was a man of 
fortune.’’ Yes, Potipher had a good, solid fortune, 
and a large yearly income from his business ; but he 
was not yet a millionaire. He might by an effort have 
built himself one of those big mausoleum, anachro- 
nisms we see in the west end of our cities, but Poti- 
pher Gilphin was a plain man, and very simple in his 
tastes, and the house I am going to enter, if you will 
bear me and Mr. Gilphin company, was located in the 
southwest suburbs. Some years before this story 
opens there was dotted here and there upon the hills, 
and surrounded by spacious grounds, where grand 
old trees threw their cool shade when the July sun 
hung hot in the heavens, the cottages and mansions 
of many of the old residents. Since then a fash- 
ionable thoroughfare has been cut through from 
south to north, breaking off at the south into pretty 
squares and circles ; and running into short streets 
of a block or two long. Sometimes these were 
hemmed in by an old house, standing high upon the 
hill, protected by its park of stately forest trees, syca- 
mores and cedars. 

Up one of those delightful little streets, that strag- 
gled into a lane, that lost itself in tall elms, which 
fringed its both sides, Mr. Gilphin turned after leav- 


347 


Potipher John Gilphin. 

mg the car. On the east side of this lane there was 
closed in by a picket rail fence a frontage of about 
two acres, that ran back west about five. The fence 
was built to shield a thick hedge of sweet-briar, whose 
branches hung over and twined and interlaced about 
its pickets, until it seemed to absorb their wood into 
the wood of its vine, and the old fence was lost in 
the shrub. Inside the hedge, and far enough away 
to keep the children from committing theft, the lilac- 
bushes grew tall, and in spring burst forth in all their 
violet tints, filling the air about with their perfume. 
Also the snowballs in their fluffy white purity, and 
the bridal wreaths, with their long, curly stems, look- 
ing like rows of buttons made of creamy curds, all 
bloomed with the first warm April days. In the 
center of the fence was a large grated iron gate, 
which opened into a carriage-way, shaded by tall 
cedars, and wound through ’the gently-sloping 
grounds up to the front of the house, that stood upon 
a knoll-like hill, and was surrounded by great trees. 
The house had been built some years and was of 
gray-stone, with gable roofs, and under its narrow 
upper story windows were little porticoes, the sides 
of the first story being broken by bow windows. And 
in front a wide piazza ran its whole length. 

As Potipher Gilphin walked up the path, the wet 
trees dripped and dripped, the chill winds soughed 
through their branches and blew their dead leaves at 
his feet. When he reached the front door he turned 
his latch-key in the lock, and entered a wide, square 
hall, where a bronze lamp hung from the ceiling ; its 


348 


In the Market Place. 


shade of porcelain painted in Arabesque designs, 
shedding a soft dim light. Its broad old-fashioned 
stair-way was a delight to the eye, as well as to the 
artistic sense, and carried one back to the days when 
men’s hearts were large, and incomes small. A few 
Turkish rugs laid here and there on the polished floor 
of hardwood. An oak hall tree, its mirror reaching 
nearly to the cornice, reflected the walls, which were 
tinted a delicate blue-gray, and on which hung etch- 
ings, engravings and a few water colors that were of 
recent date, but showed care and taste in their selec- 
tion. 

Mr. Gilphin removed his hat, hung it on the hall- 
tree, then divested himself of his overcoat, parted the 
drapery of the folding doors leading into the library, 
and as he entered such a pleasant greeting it gave 
him. A bright coal fire burned in the deep, broad 
grate of the old-fashioned mantel-piece of carved ma- 
hogany, which caught the reflected flames in its rich 
dark reddish wood, and threw them out again, in long 
splotches of light on the polished floor of maple. The 
room was large and square, with low ceilings and 
wainscoted in mahogany; a massive mahogany table 
stood in the center of the floor that was covered with 
a rich Persian rug. The table was strewn with books, 
magazines and newspapers. Three book-cases of ma- 
hogany were filled with books, and between the pan- 
els of the walls hung some gems in water-colors. 
And standing about were easy chairs, of the same 
wood, embossed in leather. Mr. Gilphin lighted a 
bronze lamp of antique workmanship, then a student 


349 


Potipher John Gilphin. 

lamp of silver, that he placed as near the edge of the 
table as it could stand with safety; drew up a chair, 
seated himself, and took from his coat pocket the 
evening paper, and began to read. In a few minutes 
there was a faint foot-fall heard on the stairs, the por- 
tieres of the library door parted and a small fairy-like 
creature crept up behind his chair, put her arms 
about his neck and laid her fair cheek against his. 
Potipher drew her face down and kissed her brow. 
She was so slight and dainty that one could hardly 
say from the first glance whether she was child or 
woman ; but with the second look she impressed one 
as being even older than her years, which were but 
a few months over seventeen. Her dark brown hair 
was gathered into one long, thick braid at the back, 
and hung down below her waist, where it was fast- 
ened at the end with a bow of white satin ribbon. 
Her dark brows penciled the blue-veined temples and 
shaded eyes, large and of a deep, purplish blue, that 
were veiled by long, black lashes. Her retrouse nose 
gave piquancy to characteristics that were somewhat 
sensuous, vacillating, but balanced by an intellect 
above the average girl. All these played hide-and- 
seek, in the small, pouting mouth, and coquetted with 
the round, full chin, which kept them in subjection. 

''Well, how has my daughter managed to pass this 
long, rainy day?^’ asked Mr. Gilphin, removing his 
glasses, and looking with a tender light in his deep- 
set eyes, upon the upturned face, beside him. 

"Oh, splendidly, papa; it has been a glorious day 
for doing things, as mamma Marta would say,’’ she 


350 


In the Market Place. 


answered, drawing up a chair to the fire, and seating 
herself in it. ‘'I studied three hours this morning, 
then after lunch, I went to Mamma Marta’s room and 
helped her sew on a gown she is making over for me. 
The rest of the time I filled in reading Goethe’s 
Elective Affinities,” Elsie laughed a low, soft laugh, 
and rested one tiny Cinderella foot, shod in a low, 
patent-leather tie, upon the fender. 

‘‘My, what an industrious child, ‘Goethe’s Elective 
Affinities,’ dear me, I fear, if you keep on cramming 
your young brain with books, whose matter you can 
hardly digest at your age, you will do so at the ex- 
pense of that little body of yours. Besides you will 
leave your poor, ignorant papa away in the back 
ground.” 

“Oh, no ; you are my own, wise, dear, loving, ten- 
der papa, you are my ideal,” she said, rising from her 
seat, “I shall never marry until I find a husband as 
wise and brave, good, true, and handsome, as my 
dear father.” 

There was moisture in Potipher Gilphin’s eyes, as 
he bent and kissed the cheek that nestled close to his. 
Then the folding-doors that led into the dining-room 
were thrown open by a young negro man, who an- 
nounced dinner. He had good features, rather an 
intelligent face, but black as ebony. He wore a suit 
of black, a white tie, and white linen jacket, and 
apron, that came up to his neck, and down to his 
knees. He parted the portieres and stood by the door 
until Mr. Gilphin and his daughter passed through to 
the dining-room. 


CHAPTER II. 


SNOW-BAIvI. HII.I., IN ElyM I^ANi). 

The) dining-room was large and square in shape 
like the library. It was furnished in dark oak, and 
lighted by two bow-windows, which looked out upon 
the sloping hill, and over a stretch of field, to a grove 
of great oaks, that lay to the northwest. Mr. Gilphin 
had lived in the house several years before he bought 
it, and for some time after he purchased it, without 
paying much attention to its interior, which was 
much out of repair, and also its furniture, that was 
old and scanty. A year after Elsie went to college, 
one day a man came with Mr. Gilphin’s card, and his 
own, and a note to Martha Hays, to show the man 
over the house. Martha did so and the following 
week, he came with a lot of workmen^ carpenters and 
plumC^rs; then came painters and paper hangers, 
and the last of all the interior decorators. And when 
they were all through, which took them months and 
months, they had turned the old house into a palace 
fit for fairies to dwell in. While the work was going 
on. Aunt Cyntha Johnson, an elderly colored woman, 
who in her capacity of cook, acted also as partial 
housekeeper, and came to the house with her son, 
Sam, a few months after the Gilphins moved in, was. 

351 


r 


35 ^ 


In the Market Place. 


full of alarm as to all ''Dis tearin’ down, an’ a fixin’ 
up.” She remarked to her son, many times while the 
work was in progress, with much shaking of her head 
in an ominous way, ''I spec Massa Gilphin knows what 
he’s about.” Sam, her son, would say to himself, 
with a grin, showing his large white teeth, ‘'Ise got 
de ole woman now, suah, an’ when she comes a 
scoldin’ an’ a pesterin’ dis ere chile, all Ise got to 
say, ‘Mammy Cyntha, better stop dat; Massa Giffin 
gwyan to fotch in a new mistiss, a wife, as suah as 
you lib, he is. What you tink all dis fixin’ up, an’ a 
goin’ on fo’ ? Jes fo’ Miss Elsie ; no, sah ; no, sah, no ; 
ha, ha, ha. Look out, when de new mistiss come, den 
you cotch it, suah; den ye’ll hab to walk de chalk, 
ginge blue, den ye’ll know what it’s to be scolded. 
Ha, ha, ha.’ ” 

“See, hea, boy, Ise gives ye to undastan’ dat Ise a 
freed pusson, an’ if Mista Giffin fotches home a wife, 
an’ Ise done loike her, an’ she me, Ise reckon Cyntha 
Johnson can fine anoder home.” And Cyntha would 
walk away muttering to herself, “Dat it was great 
foolishness in Massa Giffin, so long as he hab waited 
all dese yares to tink now ob marryin’, when Miss 
Elsie was grown.” 

Martha Hays had also many questions and heart 
throbs, concerning the house renovating, but she put 
them aside with the thought, whether Mr. Gilphin 
ever married or not, he would not separate her from 
his daughter. But three years have gone by since 
then, and Mr. Gilphin has brought home no wife. 

After the interior decorations were finished the 


Snow-ball Hill, in Elm Lane. 353 

house became quiet again, and the old furniture, 
which made the rooms look so bare, was put back 
in its place, Mr. Gilphin seemed not to think any 
more about it, or its inharmony to the rich, but sub- 
dued coloring of the walls and ceilings. Not until 
several months before Elsie's return from college 
were the new furnishings completed. The two par- 
lors on the opposite side of the library and dining- 
room were lovely rooms, symphonies in warm, yellow 
gray, that blended with violet-blues. The sides were 
broken by bow windows, the tops of stained glass, 
and the windows which faced th’e front of the house 
reached from the piazza to the ceiling. The draperies 
were of satin brocade in the warm gray-yellows of the 
walls, with delicate roses running through them ; the 
furniture being upholstered in the same. And the 
mantel-piece was of white marble exquisitely cut. 
Potipher Gilphin had a great love of the beautiful ; it 
was one of the strongest elements in his nature. From 
childhood up it amounted to a passion with him, 
although absorbed in business from, boyhood, he had 
taken pains to cultivate, rather than subdue it. A 
few years before the refurnishing of his house, he 
began to look about in the bric-a-brac shops, and art- 
ists' studios for paintings and curios. But was slow 
to buy, was eccentric in his ideas and tastes, and took 
his own way and methods of furnisliing his home. 

Potipher Gilphin's household consisted of himself 
and his daughter Elsie, Martha Hays, whom Elsie 
mentioned as Mamma Martha, and Aunt Cyntha 
Johnson and her son Samuel, who acted as butler and 
23 


354 


In the Market Place. 


steward, to the gray-stone house on Snowball hill, in 
Elm Lane. Martha Hays had been nurse and mother 
to Elsie ever since she was a wee doll-like thing of 
two years. When Martha first made her appearance 
at Mr. Gilphin’s apartments, nearly fifteen years be- 
fore this history opens, she was a thin, spare woman 
of forty years, of medium height, dark skinned, and of 
homely features. But one of those faces where kind- 
ness mingled with cheerfulness, and the wholesome- 
ness of her nature, shone and made it good to look 
upon. Martha was a lonely woman at this time, and 
had had many of the vicissitudes of life ; indeed, its 
hard side seemed to have been her portion. She had 
no home, no relatives, only a few friends, scattered 
here and there over the big city, that she had made in 
the long years she had plied her needle doing family 
sewing. She had quite a little sum saved when her 
health began to fail, but unfortunately, as is often the 
case, the bank she had her money deposited in failed. 
Having a fair primary education, she thought she 
would look about her for a position of a nursery gov- 
erness, this would take her out in the open air, which 
the doctor advised her to keep in as much as pos- 
sible; besides, she might be of great use to some 
over-worked mother. One morning, on looking 
through the daily papers, her eyes chanced to rest 
on this advertisement, ‘'Wanted, a woman between 
the age of thirty and fifty years, to take entire charge 
of a little girl two years and a few months old ; she 
must have a plain education, intelligent, a kindly dis- 
position, and of unimpeachable character. Call be- 


Snow-ball Hill, In Elm Lane. 35^ 

tween the hours of seven and eight, In the morning, 
at 142 G. avenue/’ 

When Martha Hays presented herself at 142 G. 
avenue, the Janitor directed her to Mr. Gilphin’s 
apartments, that were on the second floor. Martha’s 
ring was answered by a middle-aged woman, with a 
round, pleasant, Irish face, who admitted her, and 
showed her into the parlor, where she had an inter- 
view with Mr. Gilphin, and also little Elsie, who came 
toddling in after him. When Martha presented her 
credentials which were her face, and some letters 
from several old, wealthy families, whose sewing she 
did for years, and whose names Potipher had a slight 
acquaintance with, he immediately engaged her, and 
Martha signed a contract to come that very day. 

Now, let us take a glance at Miss Hays, who sits 
at the foot of the table, and who, for nearly fifteen 
years, has been an inmate of Potipher Gilphin’s 
home, who, until she was twelve years old, was nurse, 
teacher, and mother, to his daughter, when she was 
sent to a young ladies’ Academy to day school, where 
she remained until she was fifteen. Her father then 
serwt her to Vassar, where she returned a graduate 
in the early summer. There are women who are 
quite homely in youth, until they reach middle age, 
when, like a hard russet apple, which has mellowed 
with time, they grow handsomer as they grow older. 
Miss Hayes was one of these women. Her black 
hair was now a lovely iron-gray, which softened her 
dark, swarthy skin, to a rich olive tint, that was deep- 
ened by her brown eyes ; where shone sweetne3s, gen- 


In the Market Place. 


356 

tleness and the spirit of a true and loving heart. Her 
thin, angular figure had filled and rounded, and her 
black silk dress with its folds of lace at the throat, 
fitted her to perfection. There is a quiet dignity 
about her, which has come with the years of secured 
comfort, an object in life, and the daily duties that 
were congenial to her; and above all the maternal 
love, which grew and grew, and wound about her 
lonely heart. 

There was another love that had crept into Mar- 
tha’s heart, and nestled there for years. Do not mis- 
understand me, dear reader, there was no romance, 
no passion, in it; nor was Martha’s heart disturbed 
by any such dream; not since long ago, the boy of 
twenty-two, whispered in her ear, one soft June night, 
near the shady lagoon, in her own Southern Village, 
that he loved her; then went to New Orleans, where 
in a few months the yellow fever broke out, and after 
heroically nursing his brothers, he fell a victim to the 
fever himself. This love of Martha’s was a deep 
gratitude, a tender sisterly affection for the man 
whose home she shared, and had full charge of since 
they came to live on Snow-ball hill, in Elm Lane ; 
and he had ever treated her with kind thoughtfulness, 
and courtesy. For Mr. Gilphin, though a plain man, 
one who had come up from the ranks, was in every 
sense a gentleman. He was one of those rare men, 
who are the exception, and not the rule ; a man, one 
may meet once or twice in a lifetime. I have met 
him, or else I could not tell you about him, and the 
tragedy ^yhich sad4?ned his life for years. But in 


Snow-ball Hill, in Elm Lane. 


357 


the street cars, in rail-carriages, in the rush and 
bustle of the City streets, it made no difference 
whether a woman was young or old, ugly or hand- 
some, plainly or well dressed; he was always con- 
siderate and polite, and if it came in his way to serve 
her, he did so, then would turn his back before she 
had time to thank him. 

I think I hear the reader say, if a woman, ‘'I should 
like to have been the woman this man loved, she must 
have had a heaven here on earth.’' Ah, dear reader, 
strange to say, it was a woman’s hand that dealt him 
the most terrible blow a woman can deal a man who 
loves her. It was thus that Martha Hays found Poti- 
pher Gilphin, at the age of twenty-six ; crushed, 
wounded, thrown back upon himself, and for weeks 
and months, the light of his dreams, hopes and as- 
pirations, gone out. With a heart lacerated and 
smarting under his grief, which blunted and hardened 
it for days against his poor helpless infant daughter, 
the child she had deserted. There was but one part 
of her she left the little thing, and that was her beau- 
tiful eyes ; in the course of time, these eyes pleaded 
for little Elsie. (Blessed time, the healer of wounds.) 
After a year or so Potipher rose above his grief and 
pain, took the child to his heart, and bent all his ener- 
gies and talents to the accumulation of money, as we 
see he has succeeded at the age of forty-two. Martha 
had learned from Mary Reardon, the woman who an- 
swered her ring, the first morning she came to Mr. 
Gilphin’s apartments, something of the story of Mr. 
Gilphin’s desertion by his wife. Mary Reardon had 


358 


In the Market Place. 


lived six months with the Gilphins before little Elsie 
was born, and remained four years after, until she 
took a notion to marry. 

‘‘Ah, she was a bonnie creature as you’d ever wish 
to look at,” said Mary, in a low voice, one evening, 
as she sat in Martha’s cozy room, when Martha had 
been with them about three or four months, and little 
Elsie lay asleep in her trundle-bed, “tall an’ slim, an’ 
graceful as the larch tree that grows up in the hills of 
Scotland. But so vain an’ giddy, an’ fond of dress 
and goin’, never satisfied. But you’d never think 
she’d do the like of what she did, no, never. Mr. 
Gilphin gave her her own way too much ; he was gone 
all day, a worken hard, an’ I saw things were not 
goin’ just right mesel, but it was not my place to do 
or say anything, but just attind to me work. The 
man she went away with, is a nephew of the head of 
the big shippin’ house, where Mr. Gilphin is head- 
bookkeeper, and has charge of all the money. He 
was a tall, fair, handsome young sprig of a sport; 
just for all the world like the gentlemen’s sons we see 
in the ould country, who hang ’round the great ladies, 
an’ are up to every kind of divilment. He did nothing 
but dress himsel’ in the latest fashion, an’ spend 
money like water. He dawdled about her all day, 
cornin’ in the mornin’ an’ stayin’ to lunch, makin’ me 
lots of work; after lunch taken her to drive in the 
park, an’ on the Boulevard, an’ to the races an’ 
matins, that is the theater they have in the after- 
noons, an’ all such like. But never in the evenin’ 
when Mr. Gilphin was home. 


Snow-ball Hill, in Elm Lane. 359 

^‘Sometimes Mr. Gilphin went to the office at night 
to work, however, she got word to the other fellow, 
I na know ; but the lad was sure to be here, and Gil- 
phin was sure to find him here with a few others, 
playin’ cards when he came home. I think, after a bit, 
her doins an’ carryin’ on began to trouble him. He 
would come to me in the mornin’ before he left for 
his place of business, an’ tell me to be sure an’ look 
after the baby, an’ to let everything else go ; but not 
neglect the baby. Sure, from the day it was born, 
until the night its mother left home, I had to take 
entire care of it, an’ do me work besides. The poor 
little tot, the wee mite, would have died of neglect, 
the poor, wee bairn. They were married about a year 
when the baby came, an’ I thought then she’d mend 
her ways, for she seemed such a harmless thing her- 
self, so soft-eyed, an’ had such a coaxin’, gentle way 
with her. But, after she had gotten well from her 
confinement, she pushed the baby aside, an’ never 
seemed to take notice of it, nor care, sure, whether 
it lived or died. My heart went out in pity to Mr. 
Gilphin. I never saw his like for a young man; he 
was so good, so kind, and patient with her ; he shut 
his eyes to her faults, an’ short-comins, an’ they were 
many. An’ he was always fetchin’ her somethin’ 
home, he never seemed to tire of it ; an’ if he had 
known half what I knew he would have killed her; 
for he’s a terribly determined man when he once 
makes up his mind. Well, he would na look at the 
child for a long while, after the night she went away, 
pot until you came, which \yas three or four months 


360 In the Market Place. 

after her mother's disappearance. An' it's a blessed 
thing for the poor dear, that she's in such good 
hands. She needed constant watchin’ an' I had my 
work to do ; it was different when she couldn't walk, 
she'd sleep for hours, an' I could do a great dale 
while she took her long nap in the mornin'." 

‘‘Oh, how could she leave her baby and such a kind 
husband?" cried Martha, burying her face in her 
hands, and thinking of her own life, its loneliness, 
hardships and struggles. 

“Yis, an' for such a young sprig of a sport, a dandy 
scoundrel, who as soon as his fancy wanes, will na 
care two straws about her, an' no known but what 
he's left her in the ditch long ere this." 

“I'm so glad, papa, that you have gotten home 
before it began to storm so dreadfully," said Elsie, as 
flashes of lightning came through the windows and 
the rain beat on the panes, “Mamma Martha don't 
like rainy weather. I like a storm and a rainy day, 
once in a while ; I love ‘Snow-ball' hill, at all seasons, 
but strange to say I like it most when it storms and 
rains. At Vassar the only time I got real homesick 
was when it stormed, and we had a long, cloudy, 
rainy day. Then I could see papa sitting alone in the 
quaint old library. Mamma Marta up stairs in her 
room, her rocking-chair drawn up by the table, and 
she seated comfortably reading or sewing. And I 
could hear old Beppo's heavy tread upon the front 
porch, and shaking the rain from his shaggy coat, 
as he sniffed and walked up and down ; a way he has 
of drying himself. Do you believe, papa, he knew 


Snow-ball Hill, in Elm Lane. 361 

me the day I came home from school, and only seeing 
me twice in two years ; he jumped and whined and 
cavorted, all over the porch ; and carried on in a most 
unbecoming manner for a dignified dog, as he usually 
is. And when I seated myself in one of the wicker 
chairs he came and rubbed his head all over my 
skirts. I thought he would eat me up. Finally I got 
him quieted down, and he laid his head on my lap, 
and looked up in my face, so comically that I had to 
laugh outright. Then he dropped his under jaw and 
laughed like he used to when we played and romped 
together for hours.’’ 

‘‘Yes, he missed you greatly, the first two months 
you left home, when Mr. Gilphin would leave in the 
morning he would wander up and down the stairs 
and go into every room in the house, searching for 
you, and when you were not to be found, he would 
give up the hunt, come to my room, or wherever I 
would happen to be sitting, lay his head on my lap, 
and with tears in his big, brown eyes, seem to ask me 
where you were, and where had you gone, and what 
kept you away, and when you would be back? His 
eyes seemed to ask all this information. I would pat 
his head, and say you would be home soon, which 
would apparently comfort him, until the next morn- 
ing when he would make the same rounds of the 
house. He kept this up for nearly two months, each 
time you left home for college.” 

“By the way, Sam, I haven’t seen the old fellow to- 
night; he generally meets me half-way between the 
gate and the house,” said Mr. Gilphin. 


362 


In the Market Place. 


‘‘Law, Massa,” said Sam, who stood to Mr. GiL 
phin’s right, listening to all that had been spoken of 
Beppo, with a broad grin on his black face, “he come 
home about half hour befo’ dinna, an’ was mud f om 
his ears to de toe ob his hine foot. He’d ben gone all 
day; dar come some huntas by hea dis mornin’, 
gwayn to de grove, away off yonda ’cross de rail- 
road track, on tother side ob de creek, an’ I spec 
he’d ben wid dem. Cyntha she scold him, tole him to 
be gone an’ go to de creek, an’ take a baff, befo’ his 
massa come home. An’, law, Massa Giffin, ye jes 
oughter seed de way he scudded off, ole as he Is.” 

Elsie gave a ringing laugh, Martha’s face lighted 
up in a pleasant smile, and Mr. Gilphin chuckled to 
himself, at Sam’s recital of Beppo’s intelligence. Then 
the door leading into the kitchen opened, and a large, 
brown Spaniel, with big brown eyes, long, shaggy 
hair, long ears, and a tail like a curled Ostrich feather 
entered. He paid no heed to the merriment he gave 
those who sat around the table, but walked leisurely 
to Elsie’s chair and laid down at her feet. 

“Oh, papa, if he hasn’t licked himself dry, after his 
bath ; he must have taken it, for there is not a speck 
of mud on him, and he’s as dry as wool.” And Elsie 
pushed her chair back, stooped over and patted the 
dog on the head, while the others enjoyed a good 
laugh at Beppo’s expense. 

“Laws, Miss Elsie, ye oughter hab seed him, when 
he come home dis evenin’, sich a looken scavenger as 
he was. He jes got wile when de huntas come ’round, 
an’ das got so now da jes whistle fo’ him, an’ away 


Snow-ball Hill, in Elm Lane. 363 

wid him ; oh, he's got teribly wile since you ben gone 
fom home. It's dat Massa Phill Gresham an' neigh- 
bor dat libs down de lane an' up on de Abnue ; he an' 
some others fom de city. Beppo, he knows Massa 
Phill Gresham fo' de las’ fou yares, eber since he 
come to lib in de big house on de Abenue." Sam was 
interrupted here by ringing of the front door bell. 

*'Oh, who can it be, to be out in this storm?” cried 
Elsie, and they all rose from the table and went into 
the library, Beppo walking by the side of his mis- 
tress, as far as the library door, where he turned back 
and went to the dining-room, where he knew Sam 
would have a big tin plate of meat for him, and a 
nice bone to sharpen his teeth on. 


CHAPTER HI. 


HIS THOUGHTS CAM^ QUICK AND I^AST, AMD I^I,^W 

OVER the years to the great tragedy 

OE HIS EIEE. 

Mr. Giephin stood by the mantel-piece' and was 
just in the act of scratching a match to light his cigar, 
for his usual after-dinner smoke, when Sam parted 
the portieres and said, “A lady in de pala to see Massa 
Giffin.” The words had scarcely died on Sam’s lips, 
when Mr. Gilphin turned quickly about and looked at 
Sam, with a face pale as death, his mouth drawn, as 
with pain; a strange expression in his eyes, as if he 
had taken one glance backward to the night, nearly 
sixteen years before, when, returning home, he en- 
tered his wife’s room and found it deserted, ransacked 
of all clothing and valuables ; little Elsie asleep in her 
crib, and his young wife flown. A sort of tremor 
passed over his whole body, the match and unlighted 
cigar shook in his hand, as he said, under his breath, 
more as if he were speaking to himself, ‘‘What, a lady 
to see me, on such a night as this ! I can’t imagine 
who it can be ; she must have some pressing errand to 
have brought her out in this storm. Did she give 
her name?” 

“No, sah, but Ise knows she a lady, she so tall an’ 
364 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 365 

fare wid har de colo ob de bronze ob that are lamp/’ 

“That will do, Sam, I will go in and see the lady,” 
he said, as he passed Sam, went into the hall and 
entered the parlors. 

Seated in one of the easy chairs near a center table, 
and in the shadow of the dim gas-light, was a woman. 
Upon her head, which was small and of classic grace, 
she wore a little black bonnet, of capot shape; her 
dress was of black serge, made walking length, its 
high neck collar, relieved by a simple band of white 
linen. A mantle of dark rich fur wrapped her shoul- 
ders, and hung in folds about her tall, willowy figure. 
When Potipher Gilphin entered he rested one quick, 
penetrating glance upon her, as she rose up from her 
seat, then he stood a second as if rooted to the floor. 
That brow so fair had been crossed and recrossed by 
shadows black as night ; those eyes, beautiful in their 
clear, holy light, had shed wells of tears, he knew ; 
the mouth, with its serious tenderness, had often 
twitched with pain, at the sorrows, wrongs and in- 
justices of the world. And over the whole face was 
a sadness, sweetened by a peace and rest she had 
found in the work she felt she was called to do. Poti- 
pher Gilphin had never, since grown to manhood, 
felt the sense of his own plainness as he stood before 
the peerless and singular beauty of this woman ; and 
for a moment he felt keenly and bitterly his physical 
deficiencies. How dare he, he thought to himself, 
small, plain-featured and maimed, let his eyes rest 
for even a moment in admiration upon this fair god- 
dess, this queenly creature ? 


In the Market Place. 


366 

But all feeling of inferiority vanished, when Gartha 
(as the reader, I suppose, has guessed ere this) threw 
back her mantle, leaned her hand on the table beside 
her, and looked up with a grave smile and said, “I 
believe this is Mr. Gilphin.’' Their eyes met, as she 
spoke his name, and Potipher, from that moment, 
knew he had found favor with her. For Gartha saw 
not only the outward, but the inner man ; the spirit 
had looked beyond the outer covering and mere 
physical imperfections, and saw more gold than dross. 
There is a beauty of character which permeates the 
whole being, leaving its indelible stamp upon the 
man or woman, fashioning and moulding them, as 
the years go by, and which no age can eradicate, as 
it does mere physical perfection. Gartha saw that 
Potipher Gilphin was no ordinary man, that he, as 
well as herself, had a history and had tasted of life’s 
joys and sorrows. She read in the broad, seamed 
forehead, with its scanty locks of brown hair, pushed 
carelessly back, thought, power of concentration, and 
that there blended and mingled with this power a 
certain amount of idealty which gave it a glow and 
warmth, and that dark shadows had come and gone, 
leaving their traces behind. Those small, deep-set 
eyes of blue had a strange sadness in their keen 
glance, and the mouth with its firm lips, firm almost 
to severity, she knew could relax to softness and ten- 
derness, where his sympathies and affections were 
touched. 

‘‘Yes, that is my name,” he answered, bowing with 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 367 

courtesy, and beckoning her to be seated, while he 
took a chair on the opposite side of the table. 

''It will be natural for you to suppose, Mr. Gil- 
phin,’’ began Gartha, resting her eyes on the corner 
of her mantle, which she held in her hand, "that the 
errand which has brought me here on such a dark 
and stormy night, must be of importance. My home 
is in the northern suburbs. I am the president of a 
home for orphan children,’’ she continued, glancing 
towards him, "have been for six or seven years its 
president. We have a small house down town that I 
give one day in the week to, also one day to the house 
in the country; but to-day, being Friday, was our 
monthly meeting, when we come together to discuss 
the affairs of both houses. From certain things 
which have come to light, concerning the matter, that 
has given me a great deal of serious worry, much 
annoyance and pain, I directed my steps here; my 
carriage awaits me at the door. 

"Some six years ago and over, I rented, with two 
other ladies, a large house in the western suburbs, 
with the understanding that we were to purchase it 
at a given time. I suppose you will say it was quite 
an undertaking for a mere girl, as I was then. It was 
an old family mansion, with about ten acres of 
ground. Our purpose was to turn it into a home for 
children, that we were to conduct under new meth- 
ods. About six months after we had moved into the 
house, and which was at the time in a state of chaos, 
with workmen. There came one evening about twi- 


368 


In the Market Place. 


light a carriage to the door, and an elderly negress 
with a white child in her arms, stepped out, came up 
the porch steps, and rang the bell and was admitted. 
The baby was a boy, about six months old, and the 
colored woman informed me, as I happened to be in 
the house on that evening, that she had been the 
child’s nurse since it was born. But I could learn 
nothing from her of the child’s parents, or could I 
elicit any information concerning its mother ; nothing 
but that she was sent to me as the president and 
director of the home, with the baby and the letter 
which she handed me would explain all I was to 
know. I opened the letter and found inclosed a check 
for one thousand dollars, the check was to be cashed 
at a certain bank in this city. The letter stated that 
the thousand dollars and its clothes was all the for- 
tune the little fellow had, and that his mother deemed 
herself unfit to rear him, that she had heard of me and 
the home, and the unusual interest I took in children, 
for one so young ; that she sent the baby boy to me, 
feeling that I would take better care of him than she. 
She also made the request that I would give it the 
name of Charles Leighten.” At the mention of this 
name Potipher Gilphin covered his face with his 
hands. Deep and painful were the emotions that 
filled his breast, as his thoughts came quick and fast 
and flew back over the years, to the tragedy of his 
life; the deserted room, his deserted child, and dis- 
honored wife, her treachery and shame, and now he 
asked himself, what was to be the end. 

‘'There was no signature to the letter,” continued 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 369 

Gartha, softly, marking Potipher’s agitation. '‘I 
could coax no further information about the child and 
its parents from the woman; she evidently had her 
instructions to say nothing, and she was faithful to 
the letter. I took the baby from her ; in the meantime 
the driver of the carriage had brought in a small 
trunk with the child's clothing. From the first mo- 
ment I set eyes upon the baby I loved it ; it has in the 
last six years become very dear to me; and more 
especially in the last two. He has grown to be a 
beautiful boy, in every sense physically as well as 
mentally. It is a time when his most troublesome 
years are past, his most critical ones begin. Now a 
few weeks ago this same negro woman came to this 
home, looking for the child, arid was sent by the ma- 
tron to my own home where I had taken Charley 
over a year before, adopting him with a little girl, 
left me by her mother when dying. I asked her who 
sent her, and what her object was in wanting to see 
him. She replied she came to see him, and if per- 
mitted to take him away with her ; but just for a few 
hours, and that she would give her word and her 
oath that she would return him safely to me inside of 
four or five hours, and perhaps in less time. I in- 
quired if it were his mother who sent her. 

‘'She said that her orders were not to answer any 
questions, but to try by all means to fetch back the 
boy. She begged me hard with tears streaming down 
her black cheeks for the boy. I told her I could not 
let her have the boy, not until I saw my attorney. 
She then went away. 

24 


370 


In the Market Place. 


paid particular attention to the letter’s C. L. on 
the thousand dollar check, and wrote them down in 
my note-book, I keep for such purposes. When I 
presented the check at the bank the money was to be 
drawn from after being identified by responsible par- 
ties; I had no trouble m getting it cashed. The 
money was then placed in the bank holding the funds 
for the Home, for the use of the child, after the form 
of the probate court, which constituted me its guar- 
dian. After the reappearance of the colored nurse, 
asking for the boy, I went to the bank, in which the 
thousand dollars had first been deposited, and had 
a talk with the president, concerning the boy, and the 
letters C. L. upon the check ; he said he would inves- 
tigate the matter and to call again in about a week. 
I did so yesterday, the president of the bank informed 
me he was not at liberty to disclose the full name of 
the gentleman who had placed the money in the bank, 
to the infant’s credit, and drew up the note payable 
to myself. Failing in this, it come to my mind that I 
had, on looking over the trunk, containing the child’s 
clothes, which the driver of the carriage had brought 
in, I had found a lady’s hemstitched handkerchief, 
with the name embroidered in one corner, 'Annette 
Gilphin.’ ” 

Potipher Gilphin had sat quietly with bowed head, 
his cheek resting on his right hand, listening to Gar- 
tha^s story of the child, but at the mention of the 
name of "Annette Gilphin,” he rose to his feet, his 
face pale, cold and stern, but wearing the marks of 
great mental anguish. He walked to the window. 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 371 

came back and stood beside the chair he had just 
vacated, with his right arm crossed over his breast, 
his hand clasping the left above the elbow, a habit 
with him, a way he had of concealing and shielding 
the maimed arm. As he stood there a second with 
his eyes resting on the floor, there was a great dig- 
nity pervaded his whole person, and it seemed to 
Gartha he had taken on two feet in height. He 
raised his hand, pushed back the straggling hair from 
his brow, turned upon her a glance saddened with 
the many memories of the past, and said: ‘‘I will 
hear you, finish your story,’^ then seated himself 
again. 

Gartha, while feeling deeply interested, and sympa- 
thetically drawn to the man fiefore her, knew now 
she had found the one who could throw” some light on 
what she sought, and give her some clue to the mys- 
tery which surrounded the child’s parents ; who they 
were and their names. 

then went to my attorney,” resumed Gartha, 
‘^and taking the handkerchief with me which I had 
put safely away in a box, in my dressing-case, and 
laid the whole matter before him, with all its details. 
And the result, your name, place of business and the 
street and number of your residence. I thought it 
best to come here and have a private talk with you. 
Now, Mr. Gilphin, can you give me any information 
in regard to the boy’s parents?” 

Potipher rose from his seat again, walked to the 
front window and back, stood a moment by his chair, 
in the same position he had assumed before, his right 


372 


In the Market Place. 


arm crossed on his breast, his hand clasping the left 
arm, his head bowed, his shoulders bent, and it 
seemed to Gartha, who watched him intently, that he 
had suddenly grown twenty years older. 

''Mrs. Lowell,'' he said, "your story has brought 
back, or sent me back, over eighteen years, to a 
youthful romance, love and marriage, of a sacred 
confidence and faith, betrayal, and final desertion. I 
was but twenty-three years, when I married Annette 
Lefarge, a beautiful girl of nearly twenty years. She 
was of French extraction on her father's side, her 
mother being purely American, a Southerner of good 
family. Her father had been a rich planter, before 
the civil war, and had met with the same fate as many 
other planters ; everything had been swept away. 
She was an orphan when I made her acquaintance, 
and resided with an uncle of hers, who died shortly 
after we married. But I thought, when my eyes first 
rested upon her, that I had never beheld a being more 
beautiful to look upon. She was one of the tall, wil- 
lowy kind, what we men call spirituelle, or at least 
what men think spirituelle; when they meet one of 
those long limbed, limp, feline creatures ; soft eyed, 
low voiced, and with a laugh like a musical peel of 
bells. I felt like an ogre beside her, even my name 
was a prelude to my physical ugliness. But all I 
asked was to be allowed to love her, to adore her, to 
live for her, to work for her, and to die for her, if 
necessary. I was older for twenty-three than most 
men are at thirty; I had taken care of myself from 
a boy twelve years old. I was with a business firm 


373 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 

the office of which I entered at that age, after the 
death of my mother and had been there five years. 
During that time I had often expressed a desire to 
come west. The head of the manufacturing estab- 
lishment, at whose house I lived and who treated 
me with fatherly kindness, recommended me to a 
large business house here. I was but seventeen 
years of age, at that time, and when I married I had 
whole charge of a floor, where was sold a certain 
special goods ; and I was receiving as large a salary 
yearly as any employe in the house, doing that kind 
of work, besides a percentage on all sales. V/ell, we 
were married a year, when a little girl was born to 
us. During that year, I awakened to the fact that 
my wife, while beautiful, brilliant, versatile and fas- 
cinating, had a habit of constantly prevaricating, ex- 
aggerating. She would never tell a straight truth, 
she took the greatest pains to create things, so as to 
give them an air of mystery. She was indolent, she 
hated anything like trouble, care or the least re- 
sponsibility. She would not willingly hurt a fly, but 
she would let her baby lie for hours in a cramped 
position in its crib, until Mary Reardon, a good, faith- 
ful woman who kept house for us, would hear its 
moans, and go to its relief. I was not without knowl- 
edge of her faults, and felt keenly disappointed in my 
ideal, but my great love for her, blinded me to the 
gravity of them, and I hoped for the best. 

^‘There was at that time, in the business House, 
which I belonged to, a young man, a nephew of the 
head of the firm. His father was very rich, but a 


374 


In the Market Place. 


close-fisted man, who began the world like myself, a 
poor boy. Being advanced in years, he had retired 
from active business, but was in reality the moneyed 
man of the house. After a two years’ sojourn in 
Europe, where he went after leaving college, this 
son had been placed with us to learn the business ; 
he was one of the salesmen in my department. He 
was a handsome, splendid looking specimen of young 
manhood ; well educated, polished, affable, and 
seemed to evince the greatest friendship for myself, 
which I returned, and felt proud in my heart of his 
liking. I had on several occasions invited him to our 
apartments to dinner; I had no fear that he would 
not be well received, and entertained, for my wife 
was gifted in that respect. I observed the first even- 
ing I brought him to our home, my daughter was 
then but three months old, he seemed to be very 
much impressed with my wife’s appearance, and 
asked me the following day, in a joking manner, like 
young men will, how and where I ever came to find 
such a beautiful woman for a wife, and if there were 
any more left of her style of beauty? I had always 
felt that there was nothing meaner than for a man to 
coerce his wife’s actions ; I looked upon it as a sort 
of petty tyranny. I believed in giving a woman full 
liberty, trusting to her pride, her good sense of 
honor, to guide her. While I think this course will 
succeed nine times out of ten, and make the woman 
more the man’s friend, I was mistaken in Annette. 

‘'In the course of five or six months, in which 
Charles Leighton had been my guest several times to 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 375 

dinner, he would be missing from his place in the 
department for two or three days out of each week. 
At first we thought nothing of it ; he was young, his 
father wealthy, his uncle the head of the great whole- 
sale House ; it was not expected he would confine him- 
self very closely to business. Finally he left off com- 
ing altogether, for what reason I did not for a second 
suspect, not for months after, did I learn it was to 
be with Annette. 

'^He spent all his time with her in my absence. 
Time and time again I came home and found him 
there, until I forbid her seeing him. She would make 
all manner of promises, only to break them when I 
was out of sight. At last I had to threaten both her 
and him, that if I came home and found him in my 
house I would kill him on sight. Divorces in those 
days were in bad odor, and I was young and trying 
to gain a foot-hold among men. It was only the day 
before the elopement that she promised me never to 
see Charles Leighton again. That evening I went 
back to the office; I had the books to look over; I 
had also in my charge all the funds of the floor. 
When I returned to my apartments, about half past 
ten, I found her room ransacked of all her clothing, 
jewels and several large trunks gone, and little Elsie 
lay asleep in her crib. I went into the hall to call 
Mary Reardon, as I did she came in with her bonnet 
on, carrying her mantle on her arm. Annette had 
sent her on an errand and she had stopped on the 
way to see a sick woman friend. She could tell me 
nothing; she knew nothing, only that she had put 


In the Market Place. 


376 

Elsie to sleep and had left Annette in her room alone, 
when she went out. It is just fifteen years ago to- 
night, the very date of the month, she left her home, 
husband and child. What a strange coincidence 
he said, rising and walking to the window. 

Gartha had listened with deep, painful interest, to 
every word of the story of Potipher's unfortunate 
wife. It only differed in certain details from her own 
sad history, she being the wronged party. It brought 
back memories of the night when she herself fled 
from her home and her husband’s treachery and 
heartless persecution ; when she stood upon the hill 
near Tangle wood, looking down upon the city, and 
not knowing which way to turn her weary feet. For 
a great darkness had fallen upon her heart, and it 
was not until she prayed for light that light was 
given her. 

‘T am almost confident,” continued Potipher, com- 
ing back from the window and standing by the table, 
the vertical lines of his forehead drawn with pain, 
as he looked at Gartha, who sat with bowed head, 
her cheek as white as the dainty cambric handker- 
chief she held to her eyes, '^that the boy child you 
have reared so tenderly and love, is Annette Le- 
farge’s son. I cannot say that Charles Leighton is 
his father ; I supposed he had thrown her off, long ere 
this. When they eloped they went to Europe. A few 
years after I heard that his father was so outraged at 
his son’s behavior that he gave him a large sum of 
money on condition he would live abroad, and make 
no further claim upon him or his estate. Annette has 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 377 

never applied for a divorce; she shall never get one, 
if I can help it. I made application and got an abso- 
lute divorce from her eight years ago. My daughter 
was getting to an age that, if her mother should 
return, I wanted to cut off all claim that she would 
have in the law to her, and upon myself and property. 
For several years after she went away, every night 
I watched through the long hours, thinking she 
might repent and return to her home and her child. 
I would have gladly received her then, though we 
would have lived as strangers under the same roof. 
But I waited and watched in vain, and now the last 
vestige of the old great love I had for her has died. 
She is nothing to me, the bond of nature which binds 
mother and child was snapped and broken the night 
she deserted me and her infant daughter. I repudiate 
her, the child has never heard of her mother’s shame ; 
she has been led to believe her mother died in her 
infancy. No, I could not now stretch out a hand to 
help her ; no, not if I saw her lying in the gutter and 
gasping for breath; no, no, that is all over and past.” 
He left the table and began walking up and down the 
floor. 

^'Mr. Gilphin,” said Gartha, rising, ‘‘you would for- 
give your wife, and help her even at this late hour, 
should she repent and return to you. Oh, if you had 
ever seen half what I have, in the last two years ; if 
you would go with me into the back, narrow streets 
of the city, its by-ways, its crowded, dark alleys, 
where poverty, sin and crime congregate ; where the 
heroines of all the sad stories find themselves sooner 


In the Market Place. 


378 

or later; either that or in some gilded palace of 
shame. Or into one of the many great avenues where 
great stately houses raise their dark, frowning stone 
fronts. It is not so easy to gain admittance there, 
but there are worse sins committed in these luxurious 
abodes and in garments of purple and fine linen, than 
in the days of pagan Pompeii, when steeped in the 
licentiousness that made the fair heavens darken, and 
the sun, moon and the planets hide their faces for 
shame. We prate much of the slums^ of the big city ; 
we see poverty and sin there in its bald nakedness, 
but it is not half so offensive to God, as in the gilded 
palaces, the luxurious boudoir of mistress, the 
courtesan. 

‘‘These are they who cause the poor wife, in sheer 
self respect, to leave her marriage bed, choke down 
her sobs and humiliation, fold her arms about her 
little children, and take herself and them to live in 
another part of the house. She fears a scandal, fears 
to hurt her children, and the man who at the altar 
promised ‘to love, honor and cherish her until death 
us do part.' Yes, if you had seen half what I have 
seen and know, since the short while I have forgotten 
self, used my brain, and my eyes to see, my ears to 
hear, and my hands to do, you would forgive the 
woman who was your wife ; you would try to forget 
her sin, for it is only in forgiveness we can find rest 
and happiness. Mr. Gilphin, I have had women lay 
their head on this shoulder, while with their last 
breath, their tears streaming down their cheeks, they 
confessed sins to me that cried to heaven for ven- 


379 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 

geance, and begged God’s forgiveness, and died trust- 
ing in His son’s name and His promise of eternal life. 
I have had drunkards, dying in the most abject pov-^ 
erty, who first cursed me because I came to save their 
poor, beaten, hungry, neglected children, and take 
them to my home.. These men and women have held 
my hand while dying, blessing me for the comfort 
and peace given them in their last moments ; for the 
belief in the Saviour, whose name, strange as it may 
seem in these days of schools and churches, they had 
never heard in their youth ; and others called upon it 
only to blaspheme it. These are the things, Mr. Gil- 
phin, that bring peace and joy in this life and prepare 
the way of the soul for the future. You must forgive 
Annette Lefarge.” A slight color tinged her cheek 
as she spoke, and there was great tenderness in her 
voice. 

Potipher Gilphin had no religious beliefs at this 
time ; there was stored away back in his memory the 
vision of a little boy, four years old, kneeling at his 
widowed mother’s side, where she taught him to lisp 
the Lord’s prayer. Then, later on, of her sending 
him to Sunday school, to the Methodist chapel, a few 
blocks from their home, and where he continued to 
go until she died. After her death the boy had to 
face the world, and the hard, sterile facts of how to 
earn his bread and acquire the rudiments of an educa- 
tion. When the day’s work was over in the office of 
his friend, the manufacturer, he went to his little 
room and pored over his lessons far into the night. 
He read all the books that at that time came in his 


380 


In the Market Place. 


way, and as the years went by, he drifted from one 
set of ideas to others, formed by newer opinions. 
From science, which he read deeply, and for a while 
thought it the key to all knowledge, and would in 
time unlock all mysteries of the unknown. Then he 
took up philosophy, and from philosophy, he came to 
believe that life was a problem not to be solved, a 
riddle which was not within his reach or province to 
unravel, but to make the best he could of it, to live so 
as to make others happy, and in doing so attain to 
happiness himself. 

But as Gartha stood before him, in her black dress, 
her dark fur mantle falling partially from her sloping 
shoulders, her bright hair lying in ripples upon the 
fair forehead, that expressed so much that is inex- 
pressible, she was a revelation to Potipher Gilphin. 
Plow came this beautiful woman, whose face was the 
embodiment of intellectual and spiritual loveliness, 
and might have been chiseled by the gods, to choose 
such an obscure life? To work in the slums, the 
back crowded streets, and dark alleys of the big city ? 
Why, she can scarcely be over twenty-six years of 
age ; yet from what she tells me she has been for over 
six years at the head of a home for children, organ- 
ized and conducted by herself. It has been said that 
men are blind to the true worth and beauty of women. 
They only see where their fancies lead them. A man 
would think in this case that from the day she became 
a woman, and men first rested their eyes upon her, 
whether poor or rich, the possessor of wealth, posi- 
tion, or rank, they would have wanted to lay it all at 


His Thoughts Came Quick. 381 

her feet, and to have made her theirs. A King might 
have put her on a throne, and the honor would have 
been meager, compared with the delight of knowing 
she was his. Ah, me, she, too, must have a history, 
some painful drama, that has turned the flowery paths 
of her youth into stony roads and its joyous springs 
into somber channels. These were Potipher's 
thoughts, as he paced up and down the floor. 

‘‘Mr, Gilphin,” said Gartha, after a pause, “you will 
help me find the boy’s parents, and if they are the par- 
ties wishing to claim him, I would like to be sure 
before I give him up ; indeed, I will not surrender him 
to any one unless his father or mother. The boy has 
become very dear to me; I should like to have the 
guiding of his young life.” 

Mr. Gilphin stopped pacing the floor, came and 
stood before her, with bent head, shoulders drooping, 
his right hand clasping his left arm. “I will do all I 
can to help you,” he answered with a tremor of the 
lips, as he rested his eyes a moment upon her, “there 
are ways, and by-ways, and intricacies connected with 
this story that only I have the clue to. The last six 
or seven years I have known little of Charles Leigh- 
ton, or Annette Lefarge’s whereabouts, and the last 
five years I have lost all trace of them. But I will do 
all I can to help you to discover who it is that lays 
claim to the boy, — yes, even,” he drew himself up, 
threw back his shoulders, his face was pale, the dark 
brows knit, and his voice was cold and stern, as he 
added, “even if the boy should prove to be Annette 
Lefarge’s son.” 


382 


In the Market Place. 


‘'I thank you/’ said Gartha, drawing her mantle up 
about her neck, ‘'my carriage awaits me' at the door.” 
He bowed low as she passed him, and followed her to 
the hall, took her water-proof cloak from the hall 
rack, handed it to her, opened the hall door, stepped 
to the carriage with her, and assisted her in. When 
seated she held out her hand ; as it rested for a 
moment in his, each felt that from that evening until 
the end of their days ; yes, for all time, their lives in 
some way would be linked together. 


CHAPTER IV. 


MRS. BARTON HAMSTKAD’S RECEPTION. 

It was the full winter season, much snow had 
fallen, a thing quite unusual in our southwestern 
climate. The night was raw, cold, damp, and foggy ; 
snov/, slush and mud was to be met with everywhere 
upon the city streets ; indeed, a very unpleasant Janu- 
ary thaw had set in. However, Terrace Q , with 

its mansions of Gothic and Queen Ann architecture, 
its trim lawns and high, white stone steps, (the white 
stone steps being a feature of the smoky city), were 

all clean swept and garnished. Terrace Q stood 

a little to the south of the long, fashionable Avenue 

P , and ran east and west; it was one of those 

streets where wealth seeks to get away from the noise 
and bustle of thoroughfares and the electric car, and 
build for itself not homes, but big mausoleums, 
gloomy and stately, but more often gingerly and 
showy. 

Mrs. Barton Hamstead^s mansion. No. 12 Terrace 

Q , was a great jumble of Queen Ann and Gothic 

architecture, with a little of the French Chalette 
mixed in. The outer door, with its panels of stained 
glass, opened into a wide vestibule with an inner 
door, leading into a large reception hall. Imported 

383 


384 


In the Market Place. 


Turkish rugs lay here and there on its polished floor 
of oak ; its decorations were of bright wall-paper but 
its silk hangings were of the richest, and a great wind- 
ing stairway of oak, that might have been a poeih in 
wood from the carver’s chisel, but it was not, I am 
sorry to say. Its posts, railings, balustrades, being 
turned by machinery, and flavored decidedly, of the 
planing mill. So, with the mantel-piece, the frame to 
its broad mirror, was elaborate enough, but it had 
the stamp of glue and the machine, in the bunches of 
grapes and pomegranates which adorned it. The 
large drawing-rooms were more lavish in their dis- 
play of upholstery, and costly drapery, than rare 
bronzes, marble groups, vases, fine engravings, paint- 
ings, etchings and carvings, and all that requires cul- 
ture, taste and the genuine love of the arts. It was 
not that Mrs. Barton Hamstead didn’t have money 
enough to gratify any taste in that line ; as the phrase 
goes, ‘‘she had money to burn.” She would spend 
more money in one day for trifles than would furnish 
her house with all these beautiful and rare art objects, 
and make some struggling genius happy for months, 
in the feeling that he was appreciated and was helped 
to accomplish something in the art world. But the 
fact is that Mrs. Barton Hamstead was stingy, when 
it came to buying paintings and other artistic things. 
“What is the use,” she once said to a lady friend, who 
was praising a young artist’s work, after Mrs. Ham- 
stead had moved into her present great mansion, 
“these things mak^ %o little show for the money 
invested.” 


Mrs. Barton Hamsteads’s Reception. 385 

But, on this January night, the Hamstead mansion 
was ablaze with light, warmth, color and music. It 
was a feast of roses, roses everywhere the eye 
glanced ; they festooned the stairway, they hung in 
garlands over the wide doors, they filled big deep 
bowls that set about in every nook and cranny. 

The carriages come and go and empty their loads 
of human freight, which are bundles of costly lace, 
satin and jewels. Mrs. Barton Hamstead stood be- 
tween the folding-doors of the large reception hall, 
and grand drawing-rooms ; she was tall and slim, 
large boned, narrow shouldered, long waisted and 
long limbed. She was a splendid model for the 
modiste’s art, just the figure to envelope in the fash- 
ionable, soft silks and laces. Her long, thin arms car- 
ried well the loose sleeves, and the full bertha’s of tulle 
and chiffon gave breadth to her shoulders and hid her 
long, scrawny neck. Her face was also long and thin, 
her complexion a pale sallow, but she had considera- 
ble art in making up, so that her cheeks blushed with 
the slightest tinge of rouge. Her hair, in its natural 
state, was a faded brown, but she had a well trained 
English maid, who had studied hair dressing in Lon- 
don and under her hands it became as gold, as any 
new five dollar gold-piece without its shine. Her 
features were sharp, and so were other things about 
Mrs. Barton Hamstead ; and her eyes were of a light, 
cold blue. Still, she shone resplendent in her soft 
India silks, shimmering into shades of pale sea-green, 
under creamy Honiton lace, as fine as spider webs. 
Diamonds big as hazel nuts encircled her throat and 
25 


386 


In the Market Place. 


her fingers to their first joint. She swayed a large 
mother-of-pearl and point applique fan, to and fro, as 
she smiled and bowed to her guests. She made quite 
a distinguished appearance and stood out brilliant 
among all that brilliant throng that came to see and 
be seen. 

Mr. Barton Hamstead was low of stature, stout, 
florid and as corpulent as the big corporation of 
which he was a member. He was a great feeder, he 
fed on and off everything feedable, that came in his 
reach, and nothing that he could squeeze any succu- 
lance out of escaped his big pouch. He was bald- 
headed, had a broad, flat face, keen, cold, blue eyes, 
a prominent nose, and a mouth that smiled a good 
deal. He was not at all a Mr. Carker, of Dickens’ 
fame ; but he had two rows of equally sound, white 
teeth that gleamed under a thick, brown mustache, 
sprinkled with gray. The newspapers, (and they 
ought to know,} credited him with being doubly and 
trebly a millionaire. He was a member of a powerful 
gigantic corporation, also a trust, which dealt in 
saccharine products ; one that held the government as 
in the hollow of its hand. At least the men who 
formed it in the reign of Barton Hamstead, the men 
who had pledged their oath to the people, to serve 
them and their country’s best interests. The Barton 
Hamsteads are so deeply patriotic, they dearly love 
the flag of their country, trade of course follows the 
flag, we can then guess which they love the best, the 
stars and stripes or the trade it brings. 

Mrs. Bsirton Hamstead was an American by birth, 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s Reception. 387 

so v/ere her ancestors, but since her husband’s wealth 
piled up into the millions her tastes and principles 
were anything but American. Patriotism in her ? Of 
course, she was patriotic, didn’t her patriotism, like 
her husband’s, follow the flag; didn’t it put millions 
in ker pocket ; who wouldn’t be patriotic ? But how 
often her long face broke into a smile when alone in 
her boudoir with her husband, and he dropped any 
word of remonstrance to her about running over to 
Europe so much, leaving him alone in the great 
house. 

'‘Dear me, Bart, how vulgar, the idea of bothering 
one’s self about the mobs in America !” 

Mrs. Barton Hamstead spent nearly all her sum- 
mers abroad, and she did adore the English aristoc- 
racy. Lords and Earls, not going so high as Dukes, 
were her delight. Her two daughters were being- 
educated in France, and while she herself could never 
hope to be but plain Mrs. Hamstead, who knows, she 
thought, with two handsome girls, for money, from 
her standpoint, was a terrible power, and having it 
so plentiful, there was no knowing where it might 
land them upon the dizzy heights of social success. 
If she had her choice she would like to purchase an 
English estate and live there, but Mr. Hamstead was 
obliged to live in his own country, especially in winter 
time, when congress and the senate were in session. 
Indeed, to do Barton justice, he preferred to live in 
his own land, and in his own city; he liked to make 
money and keep one eye open to his interests and the 
main chance, He liked to hob-nob with congress- 


388 


In the Market Place. 


men and senators, and he couldn’t see the use of his 
wife wanting to run across the sea every few months. 
She had such a splendid home in her own country, 
he was sure no Lord’s or Earl’s palace could beat it. 
Of course, there was age and ancestral pedigree, and 
many of the old places were fine, but he would buy 
her a palace at Saratoga or Long Branch, anywhere, 
if she would just stay home. But he supposed it was 
the girls that took her scampering off every summer 
to Europe ; there would be trouble in the camp, sure, 
when the girls came back finished from that French 
school. 

‘"Bother,” he would say to himself, when these 
thoughts intruded upon him, as he sat at breakfast 
sipping his coffee, and looked about the table at the 
vacant seats, “women will have their way, let her 
manage the social part of the business.” 

So Mrs. Barton Hamstead had thrown open her 
big house ; it was her first reception since her return 
home in November. The music pealed forth in sweet 
strains, blending with the murmur and swell of voices 
as the throng swayed to and fro, like sea waves, 
ceding and receding. Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s re- 
ception was, of course, a great crush, our moneyed 
aristocracy are not so numerous, and the Mrs. Bar- 
ton Hamsteads have to fill in with people who no 
knowing how they get into society, or how they man- 
age to keep in, for they have no legitimate claim to 
the upper world. But many of this class are de- 
cidedly pleasant people, so very interesting, you 
know, and others really unique^ and are capable of 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead's Reception. 389 

gracing any assemblage. There are those who right- 
fully belong to what is termed society; they belong 
there by birth, family, education, wealth. We will see 
if we can find a few of our acquaintances among the 
guests. 

Standing in the library are a group of several ladies 
and gentlemen conversing. Mrs. General Campden 
stands beside her tall, distinguished looking husband ; 
he is one of the most prominent lawyers in the West, 
and for two or three terms represented his state in 
the United States Senate, but had for several years 
been out of politics. Mrs. Campden is of medium 
height, with exquisite grace in every line of her slen- 
der figure. She looked like a blush rose, in her pale 
pink satin shimmering under lace, old and rare, as the 
necklace of gems encircling her throat. Her hair is a 
rich chestnut brown, with a few perceptible silver 
threads, mixed here and there, for she is now nearing 
the forties, but not looking it by ten years. Her eyes 
are a lovely, soft grey, and her face, in its expression, 
is full of delicacy and womanliness ; indeed,, it's good 
to look upon. Her manners are perfect, and in every 
move and gesture there is the high-bred woman; 
from the crown of her small, classic head, to the tip 
of her white-gloved fingers, and from there to the 
toe of her dainty satin slipper. In every sense she 
was a true American, her travels abroad never les- 
sened her love for her native land. She aped no false, 
foolish, silly airs, pertaining to the aristocracy and 
nobility of other countries. She entertained Lords 
and Ladks at her honte, that was a dream gf beauty, 


/ 


390 


In the Market Place. 


the exponent of her own original taste, but it ended 
in the courtesy shown them as distinguished stran- 
gers and guests. She and her husband were also the 
friends of art and artists and litterateurs ; and strange 
to say, ministers of the Gospel, yes, indeed, real live 
ministers, gifted men, who preached no false fashion- 
able doctrines, but the meek and lowly Christ, and 
how to try and follow in His steps. There was always 
a sprinkling of these noted people to be found at her 
‘‘at homes,” and receptions, as Mrs. Topping would 
say, “Such delightful people, people you know, who 
are so very odd and clever.” And what a pity we 
haven’t more Mrs. General Campdens in our cities 
and land. 

Now let us turn our eyes, and take a glimpse of a 
Mrs. Calwald and husband. Airs. Calwald is of an- 
other type; she is of the spreading kind, and her 
rose-red satin, covered with black thread lace, sweeps 
off in a long train on the floor. And such an expose 
of neck and shoulders, was enough to make a novice 
in the social world stand and stare. The male sex 
certainly did, they were so large and white that one 
expected every moment to see her ample bosom leap 
out from her extremely low cut corsage. Her dark 
brown hair was coiled high on top of her head, and 
combed back from her forehead, leaving just a few 
frizzes to soften her large face with its prominent fea- 
tures and swarthy, dark skin. In her hand she car- 
ried a large, black satin fan, painted all over with 
bright humming-birds. Everything about Mrs. Cal- 
wald was prominent and conspicuous. What a pity 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead's Reception. 391 

her nature was not big; generally large moulds have 
large natures. But, while Mrs. Calwald was in a 
sense small she was not without some good traits ; 
she was coarse, loved gossip and was every inch a 
snob. Still, withal, she had a certain keen insight 
into things and character ; the peculiarities of people, 
and dispensing with them in a way of her own. Mr. 
Calwald was a small man with a bald head, a little 
weazened face, and small, sharp, black eyes. He was 
a large manufacturer, and knew how to make the 
dollars and pile them up, too. 

‘‘Just look at the Greysons, Al, if the widow and 
her two daughters aren’t here, and dressed to kill. 
How do you suppose they manage to keep in 
society?” 

“H’m — yes, nice girls, yes — and the mother a fine 
woman.” 

‘‘Why, my dear Almond, they are as poor as church 
mice, or Job’s old proverbial turkey. Why, you know 
John Greyson had all his wife’s money in the bank 
of which he was trustee and one of the board of man- 
agers, when it failed. You know what a terrible 
crash it was, and how the cashier, Jones, had been 
speculating with the bank’s funds, then escaped to 
South America with thousands of dollars. And be- 
fore John Greyson died he had to take a clerkship. 
Why, you know the whole story better than I.” 

“Well, well, my dear, I can’t help the story; the 
whole thing was bad business, very bad business, a 
shocking want of strict attention to business. I sup- 
pose the mother is looking around her now for rich 


39 ^ 


In the Market Place. 


husbands for her daughters. Well, they are well bred 
girls and so far as family and beauty goes, they can 
outshine many of their richer sisters. Yes, they are 
nice girls.’’ 

‘Tooh! the girls are good looking enough, but I 
don’t think their beauty will kill them. For gracious 
sake, Al, do look at Freddy*FabouT ; I do wonder 
where he got that new outfit from,” she continued, 
glancing to the left of her, her face taking on an ex- 
pression of surprise and amusement. ‘‘It isn’t Amer- 
ican, certainly; it must be imported, or copied from 
some London or Parisian actor, or from the portrait 
of an old Spanish grandee, while he was traveling 
abroad. My, isn’t it swell, though ; all the dudes in 
the house will twirl their mustaches with envy, when 
they rest their eyes on that get-up.” 

Freddy Faboul was paying all attention to the prat- 
tling of a petite blonde. His dress consisted of black 
velvet trousers, a low-cut vest, of the same material, 
a full bosomed shirt front, of the finest linen cambric, 
and a turned down collar with a white flowing neck- 
tie. A drab frock coat of the finest broad-cloth, com- 
ing just to his knees, and cut straight around, ils 
trimming being a low rolling collar and broad cuffs 
of velvet of the same shade as the coat. The lapels 
reached far back onto the shoulders, giving quite 
a display of vest and shirt bosom ; they were faced 
with satin, and tapered down to the bottom of the 
coat. His hands were exquisitely gloved and his 
boutonniere was a large, white chrysanthernum. This 


Mrs, Barton Hamstead’s Reception. 393 

with his long pointed patent-leather shoes, completed 
a peculiar toilet, which made him the most conspicu- 
ous young gentleman in regard to fashion in the 
room. 

'‘Wonder how Papa Faboul takes his son Freddy?’' 
went on Mrs. Calwald, her black eyes snapping, her 
mind still intent on the young man. "Old James Fa- 
boulj as you know, Al, is a hard fisted money making 
American ; they say he averages a sound two million. 
Freddy has done nothing since his return from Eu- 
rope, where he went after leaving college, but live 
in upper swelldom, dawdle about the girls, and gain 
some notoriety for eccentric dressing, that I don't 
believe is original with him." 

"Well, well, my dear, young men like him must 
have their frolic out. After a while he will settle 
down and become a good business man like his 
father. When he's thirty. I'll warrant you, he'll not 
bj seen at a gathering of this kind, wearing a frock 
coat like that." 

Mr. Calwald rose to his feet, patted his sides, fum- 
bled in the left pocket of his swallow-tail, took out 
his handkerchief and coughed in it. 

"H'm — m, the idea of Freddy Faboul ever having' 
the sense of his dad, it shows how short-sighted men 
are; good thing for him, my dear Al, that the old 
man lived before him. Frederick's father, feeling the 
hard grind of his youth, has overdone the thing with 
his son. Freddy has had too much money to spend, 
and now it's the grief of the old man that he won't 


394 


In the Market Place. 


take to business, and relieve him of some of its 
cares.’’ And Mrs. Calwald gave two or three wafts 
to her fan. 

“Well, well, my dear, if he has no other bad habits 
than a little eccentric and extravagant dressing, he 
will come out all right.” 

“For gracious goodness sakes, Al, here comes that 
Miss Effie Graham, and the foreign Count, but don’t 
look just yet. Oh, there’s queer stories about them, 
not coupling their names, but separately. They have 
both a history. She’s an heiress, left rich by an aunt 
who reared her. They say the aunt was a disrepu- 
table old dame, who gambled and gave gentlemen’s 
card parties, where the men played until the Vee 
sma’ hours’ of the morning. The story goes that she 
was a sharp, unscrupulous woman, made lucky invest- 
ments in real estate, died rich, and left all her wealth 
to her niece. All but a small income to the woman 
who used to live with her, and was her boon com- 
panion in all her orgies. She has now reformed and 
keeps house for Miss Graham and acts the chape- 
rone. Ha, ha, how funny.” And Mrs. Calwald 
laughed, as if she enjoyed the joke society so often 
plays on itself. 

“My dear Ann, what’s so funny? I see nothing so 
very amusing about Miss Graham, save that she’s a 
strikingly handsome girl,” said Mr. Calwald, giving 
a pull to his vest, then taking hold of the lapels of his 
coat, he began fumbling his boutonniere. 

“My dear, Almond, men are so stupid, they never 
see an inch farther than their noses, unless they scent 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s Reception. 395 

money. It’s amusing when one thinks how we strain 
at a gnat and swallow a camel. If Miss Effie Graham 
didn’t have a big bank roll, and live in the Weston 
Villa, do you suppose the Count would care a rap of 
my fan for her beauty, or that she would be a guest 
to-night, of Mrs. Barton Hamstead? Not a bit of it, 
my dear ; she has lived but twenty-two or three years, 
yet they say she has seen much of the shady side of 
life.” And Mrs. Calwald laughed again, waved her 
fan to and fro, then looked so demure, as the Count 
and Miss Graham approached. 

When they had passed with just the formal bow, 
she began, her face brightening with keen enjoyment 
of her subject. ''The Count’s a fine looking man, 
he’s not young, he must be forty, if he’s a day. The 
story goes that after he left college, he fell in love 
with a married woman; she was his friend’s wife, 
young and beautiful ; they eloped and went to 
Europe. His father is very wealthy, and after he 
went away he was so disgusted with him, that he 
allowed him a sum of money to keep out of the coun- 
try. Lately the old man died, leaving him out of his 
will. He was known abroad as the Count Henri de 
Gascon, and has kept his title here in America. And 
rumor saith that he is engaged to Miss Graham.” 

"Well, my dear, what became of the other woman 
in the case?” asked Mr. Calwald, who generally 
turned a deaf ear to his wife’s gossip, but having an 
interest in the parties in question, and seeing them 
standing to his left in the recess of a bow window^; 
where he had a good view of Miss Graham. 


396 


In the Market Place. 


'^What became of the other woman? Pooh, — just 
what becomes of every woman who takes that step, 
with few exceptions. After a while the man tires of 
her then deserts her, as I suppose it must be in this 
case. My dear Al, that is man-hke.’’ 

'"'Tut, tut, he should have married her.'’ 

Mrs. Calwald shook her shoulders. ‘"Come,” she 
said, ^‘let us move on, the dancing begins.” 

Let us turn our glance upon Miss Graham, as she 
stands leaning on the arm of the Count Henri de 
Gascon. W e have met Miss Graham before, but our 
acquaintance with her was not very favorable. To- 
night we would hardly recognize in this tall, beautiful 
woman, with a leopard’s grace, the Effie Graham of 
two years before, the wrecker of Gartha Lowell’s 
home; the woman who sent her at night adrift into 
the streets of the big city, not knowing whither to 
turn her face to look for shelter. The long, satiny, 
nut-brown hair, that she used to wear hanging in 
thick braids down her back, is piled in luxuriant coils 
on top of her head. The curls on her low, broad 
brow, contrast with the milky whiteness of her skin, 
and her cheek round and full, is like a soft piece of 
pearl velvet, faintly tinged with pink. The dark 
brows look as if an artist had taken his pencil and 
with one master stroke made the delicate arched line 
above the large eyes, of deep grey-blue, that seemed 
to smoulder in liquid fire, scorching the long, black 
lashes which veiled them. Her nose was the coarse 
feature of her face, the tell-tale, as it were, of her low 
origin. And there is poison lurking in the curves 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s Reception. 397 

of the full, red lipped mouth. She was robed in a 
gown of white satin, covered with costly lace, as soft 
and foamy as whipped cream, and showed the lines of 
a figure where the sensuous, indolent grace of the 
leopard, mingled with the sinuous curves of the ser- 
pent. Rows of pearls clasped her throat and her 
bare shoulders and arms gleamed like ivory with 
warm opal tints. 

The man who stood beside her was just in the 
prime of life, not over forty, the age when men are at 
their handsomest. He was of fine physique, with 
blonde hair, well cut features, somewhat florid now. 
The eyes were a dark blue, with drooping lids, giving 
them an amorous expression. A heavy blonde mus- 
tache curled over a well-formed mouth, whose smile 
was pleasant, and showed full, regular white teeth. 
He had much of the American type about him, but 
his many years upon the continent of Europe gave 
him the appearance of a polished gentleman of rank 
and title. A man of the world, the gambler, the 
player at ecarte and rouge et noir, the better of high 
stakes at the Derby, and the reveller at midnight 
suppers, the gentleman in the drawing-rooms, where 
he made love to high-bred ladies ; the associate of 
Lords, Earls and Dukes, a sybarite in all his tastes. 
This was the man known in London and Paris, and 
since his return to his native land, as the Count Henri 
de Gascon. 

It was over three years and a half since Charles 
Leighton, under the name of the Count Henri de 
Gascon, made his appearance in the city of his birth. 


398 


In the Market Place. 


His father, a wealthy, retired merchant, died but a 
few months before, leaving his large estate to be 
divided equally between his youngest son and daugh- 
ter, and cutting off his oldest son with but a dollar. 
The will said that he had given his oldest son two 
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, after he had left 
America, on condition that he would remain abroad 
and make no further claim to his estate. His father 
had been dead but a few months, when he sailed from 
Paris for his own country. His two hundred and 
fifty thousand long before had flown with the winds, 
but unlike the winds, did not return again, and for 
some time he had lived upon his credit and his wits. 
After arriving, he rented bachelor’s quarters in a small 
hotel in the suburbs, and began to quietly contest his 
father’s will. For two years he seldom left his rooms, 
only at night, and to dine at the restaurant, also to 
appear once or twice at court. At the end of this 
period, his fears being somewhat allayed in regard 
to the woman he had spent thirteen years of his life 
with, and left behind in Paris, he told himself that 
she was either dead or had long since given him up 
and found balm for her desertion, in another man’s 
love. Little by little he began to show himself among 
men of wealth and position, and was soon introduced 
to the clubs and society. It was at a reception he met 
Effie Graham, when his glance first rested upon her, 
he turned deadly white, and looked like a man ready 
to swoon, but he rallied, bit his lip, and said to him- 
self: ‘'Bah, she is but a girl; she can’t at the most 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s Reception. 399 

be over twenty-two years. Annette, if living, is 
thirty-six or seven. 

Up to that evening, Miss Graham, with her many 
other admirers, had been receiving the attentions of 
Arthur Lowell. He had lost trace of her for nearly 
eight or nine months, after she left his home, which 
she had to do immediately, when he discovered his 
wife had gone with the shadows of the night before. 
But when Miss Graham bought, furnished and had 
been installed in the Weston Villa with her servants 
and Aunt Madge Morris, she sent an invitation to the 
professor to meet a few friends at dinner. Arthur 
Lowell, who was feeling very dull at the time, and 
being a man who considered himself strong in his 
own strength, and having in his heart a deep resent- 
ment towards all women, as men do who have been 
most cruel to women, and aware of Effie’s power to 
amuse and fascinate, could see no harm in renewing 
the acquaintance. He dilly-dallied by her side, even- 
ing after evening, thinking every day to break the 
spell by which she held him. He could not marry 
her, to marry her would be ruin to him, give truth to 
the scandal of two years before, and damn him in the 
eyes of those whose good opinion he cared most for. 
He would have to give up what he had gained by the 
slow work of nearly half his youth. But he could no 
more break the spell by which she held him than the 
bird can the charm of the eye of the cat, which lures it 
within reach of its deadly claws. 

Effie Graham was one of those women in which the 


400 


In the Market Place. 


intellect and spiritual seem dead, but all the passions 
alive. Not in their coarseness, but in the sensuous 
love of luxury, ease and pleasure of the appetites, 
which is more seductive, than in its naked state of 
animal sensuality. Besides the admiration of men 
was as essential to her as the food she ate, the breath 
she breathed ; these were what she lived for, thrived 
and fed upon. The first evening she met the Count 
de Gascon, and was presented to him under that title, 
and she saw that he was pleased with her, she drew 
her Irish point lace opera cloak up about her bare 
arms and shoulders, and turned her back upon Arthur 
Lowell, who was dawdling by her side, begging for 
one caress of her hand. He, with all his proud man- 
hood, followed her about that evening looking like 
a whipped spaniel, nor could he again attract one 
glance of her eyes. The professor, though as cold 
and calculating in his way as Effie, was stung to the 
quick by her desertion. Since that night the Count 
had been her devoted slave, her constant companion 
in her walks, her drives and at the ball, the play, the 
opera ; indeed, he almost lived at her Villa. And now 
it was rumored that they were engaged, and the 
beautiful heiress. Miss Effie Graham, was soon to be- 
come his wife. 

The dancing had commenced, the strains of the 
waltz floated through the rooms, perfumed with rare 
exotics, and brilliant with light, color and warmth. 
The sheen of rich satins and laces, fair throats and 
white bosoms heaving under their weight of gems 
that gleamed and flashed, with th^ rise and fall, the 


Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s Reception. 401 

heave and swell of sighs. The Count places his arm 
around Effie’s waist, and whirls her off in the dance. 
The Count used to be very found off the waltz, but 
men when they reach forty, generally eschew that 
pleasure, and it was not long until he led Efhe to a 
retired corner where they found a seat. 

Did he love her as he bent over her, or in the quick 
impulsive gesture of his hand, as he reached up to 
twirl the ends of his mustache, was he trying to brush 
aside another face, that looked not unlike the one 
which reclined on the sofa beside him. The face of 
the woman to whom he swore that night long years 
before, standing over the crib of her sleeping babe, 
and pouring hot, passionate words of love in her ear, 
never, never, to desert her, but to be true to the end, 
until death alone should part them? No, he does not 
love Effie Graham, as he loved Annette Gilphin, there 
is none of the fire and flame, of the youthful passion he 
had for the woman that he spent thirteen years of his 
young manhood with. But like all sensual and un- 
lawful love, it soon consumed itself, leaving nothing 
but dead ashes, where before all was living coals. The 
Count loved Effie’s youth and beauty, but above all 
her money. From the hour he first met her, and 
learned -that she was an orphan, and rich in her own 
right, he never lost sight of her. She was the prize 
that must be won, he would stake all in the race, she 
must be his. He bent low, took her small gloved 
hand, heavy with its weight of gems, and pressed a 
kiss upon it; and told her in low whispers, how 
fondly, dearly and passionately he loved her ; that she 
26 


402 


In the Market Place, 


was his star, the radiant queen of his heart, that he 
never loved woman before as he loved her. She sat 
by his side in a limp-white heap of shimmering satin 
and lace; her eye-lids drooping, and the long, black 
lashes veiling the amorous glances which she turned 
now and then upon him, as she waved her fan to and 
fro, in slow undulations. 

‘‘Come,” she said, her red lips parting in a smile 
that showed two rows of pearls, that vied with the 
pearls which clasped her throat, “there is the supper 
march ; let us take our place in the line.” 

The following morning the newspapers gave a 
glowing account of Mrs. Barton Hamstead’s, of No. 

12 Terrace Q , reception. Among the names of 

the distinguished guests published, was the Count 
Henri de Gascon, of Paris, France, who was soon 
going to :wed the beautiful heiress, Miss Effie 
Graham. 


CHAPTER V. 


Ilviy WINDS THAT BTOW SOUt ONt GOOD. 

Whiti: Mrs. Barton Hamstead stood in her great 

house in Terrace Q , in the midst of light music, 

perfumes and roses, Cyrus Alvin, the missionary, 
was sending another kind of light into the minds, 
hearts and souls of those who crowded to hear him. 
When Gartha reached the Mission she could hardly 
make her way through the crowd, although since 
Cyrus Alvin came to the city the Mission had been 
enlarged to twice its former size. But there was a 
stranger present in the Mission hall that night, who 
had never been to a Mission before. He came in 
after Gartha, and a few moments before the sermon 
commenced, and took a seat near the door. He 
attracted no little attention from those who were 
seated about him. Appearance, similarity of dress, 
occupation and pursuits, give men a similarity of 
caste; but theie was something in the manner, air 
and physiognomy of Potipher Gilphin which set him 
apart in a crowd ; something unique, besides what we 
term character. As was stated he was not a believer 
in any creed, he lived as other men live, who violate 
no law, and are what are termed good citizens, yet 
are spiritually dead. But, as he sat listening to Cyrus 

403 


404 In the Market Place. 

Alvin, there came over him something like an awak- 
ening of conscience; his life with all its success of 
wealth, the position he had gained among business 
men, had been most barren of results. It was true, 
h- had known a great sorrow, and had looked and 
searched and hoped for even a glimmer of the rest 
and peace this man preached of, but he had failed to 
find it. 

‘'What was it,’’ he asked himself, “that brought 
these people crowding around this man, that made 
them sing and shout, and many of their faces shine 
like glorified beings? They were all poor people, 
some of them looked very poor, and they seemed 
the happiest; others, cleanly and better clad, were 
of a type peculiar to themselves. What was it that 
made Mrs. Lowell, with her youth and wondrous 
beauty, renounce the world, where she could have 
scores of worshippers at her feet, and spend her days 
and nights in the slums and haunts of sin, hunting 
and caring for sick, wretched and neglected children ? 
What was it in this man, with his beautiful, spiritual 
face and features like a cut cameo, his words like an 
unquenchable flame, burning into men’s hearts, and 
drawing them in multitudes about him? This man, 
with his gift of oratory, who could go into the halls 
of congress, the senate of the United States; but 
chose rather to go among the masses, the toiling 
classes, the poor, the depraved, the sin-sick, and 
gather them in. 

“ ‘Go ye out and gather in the lost sheep of the 
house of Israel, for the kingdom of heaven is at 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 405 

hand/ He himself had known poverty ; he knew also 
the value of money; he prided himself on being a 
just man to his clerks, and all his employes, paying 
them well for their services, and not exacting long 
hours of labor. He never refused a beggar that 
asked for alms, or a poor woman that solicited his 
aid ; still he had never given one dollar to God's treas- 
ury, nor a cent to support His gospel. Yes, life must 
have a deeper meaning, greater significance, than he 
had ever felt it to have ; and he learned frorn this 
man that the road to happiness was not in living for 
one's self or one's family. Yes, he understood a little 
now, how men could be dead men, though they lived 
amidst the bustle, traffic and trife of the great city." 

After the prayer was ended, he slipped out and 
made his way to a street corner where several lines 
of electric cars intersected. He had some time to 
wait before Gartha made her appearance, which 
proved to be the person he expected to come that 
way, to take the cars for her home. As she drew 
near, he uncovered his head to the frost-biting winds, 
and bowed low, then held out his hand to lead her 
over the crossing to the car. But she happened to 
be going to the Rescue Home, which was but a few 
blocks on the other side of the Avenue, and she 
would like him to escort her there if he had no objec- 
tion. 

They turned into a short street, thickly settled by 
rows of small tenement houses, wedged and crowded 
together as if for mutual support, so rickety were 
they. At the terminus of this street, they came to 


4o6 


In the Market Place. 


an open square, not far from the Market Place, in the 
center of the square, looming up dark and grim, 
under the starlit heavens, with the age, and smoke of 
many winters upon it, stood a large three-story, 
double brick house. Some years before my story 
opens, it was occupied by the son of the man 
who built it, and there still clung to it something of 
its former grandeur, minus the park, which, at that 
time, took in two or three blocks, now thickly built 
with small tenements of all descriptions. Its high 
white stone steps led up to a broad, imposing front 
door of black walnut, with thick glass panels; this 
opened into a vestibule where an arched door with 
stained glass panels led into a long, wide hall, where 
a broad stairway of the same dark wood wound up to 
the third story. The parlors were large and spacious, 
with great, high ceilings, and were divided by folding- 
doors. The front parlor was used as an office, and 
general reception room; the back parlor, which was 
shut off by closing the folding-doors, was used as a 
sitting-room for the inmates. It was plainly and 
scantily furnished, yet had an air of comfort. A big 
heaping coal fire burned in its ample grate, shedding 
a bright, warm glow over the pretty ingrain carpet. 
A sofa of black horse-hair stood in one corner, and 
here and there a couple of upholstered easy-chairs, 
with a sprinkling of cane rockers. A large table cov- 
ered with a maroon colored cloth, embroidered in 
gold thread, a gift from one of the lady patrons, and 
worked by her own hands, stood in the center of the 
room. It was strewn with papers, and the best peri- 


Ill winds That Blow Some One Good. 407 

odicals of a religious character; a Bible bound in 
morocco holding prominence. A few prints hung on 
the walls, and a book-case of black walnut stood in a 
corner opposite the sofa. 

Gartha found the parlor occupied by the Matron, 
and a few of the inmates of the house. Seeing her 
companion was a gentleman, the Matron, after a few 
pleasant greetings, left, beckoning the others to fol- 
low; for all liked and respected the lovely Mrs. 
Lowell. 

Gartha drew a chair up near the grate for Potipher, 
who had laid his hat on the table, when he first 
entered. Gartha threw back her fur mantle and 
seated herself, Mr. Gilphin's vis-a-vis. Her dark, 
navy blue dress, with its round bodice, its vest of a 
rich reddish brown brocade, and high crush collar of 
the same material, giving a fairer tinge to the fair 
skin, and her cheek, which the frost had flushed a 
carnation. A dark blue velvet round hat, with simple 
trimmings of pheasant wings, turbaned her small, 
beautiful shaped head, with its wealth of hair, 
whose color was the deep golden brown we some- 
times see in the afterglow of an autumn sunset. As 
she sat there she laid her cheek upon the palm of her 
hand, her elbow resting on the arm of her chair. 
Her eyes were bright, and the long, dark lashes mod- 
estly veiled the emotions that stirred their depths. 
A new hope looked out from them, a new, sweet 
peace had taken possession of her. All during the 
fall and winter, she had gone every Wednesday and 
Friday evening to the Mission to hear Cyrus Alvin 


4o8 


In the Market Place. 


preach. The first time she heard him, what a revela- 
tion she thought him, as she sat drinking in his 
words, still, her spirit was in touch with his. With all 
her high aims and aspirations, she felt at times to 
be groping in the dark, to stagger under her self- 
imposed task. There were days and weeks in which 
she often feared for herself, feared the faith in her 
was not always strong enough to battle with the evil 
which surrounded her on all sides. The thick coat of 
materialism that clogged the springs of the heart 
and incased the soul, until it seemed to her there was 
nothing left but the animal instincts. 

This man had opened her understanding, gave her 
new courage and strengthened her faith, and she 
drank in great spiritual draughts from his teaching. 
She knew now why her soul longed, hungered and 
thirsted for the higher life, the spirituality which she 
did not quite comprehend. Cyrus Alvin was the man, 
she had been looking for the ideal man of God ; when 
her eyes first beheld him, standing in the door of the 
Mission hall, she knew him, spirit spoke to spirit, 
and under his preaching she had found a great rest 
and peace, such as she had never dreamed of or 
thought it possible to attain this side of the grave. 
For years she had seen him, indeed from her early 
girlhood, ever since she began to think. He was the 
man she had prophesied of, that night long ago when 
she sat beside her friend, Mary Lawrie’s bed, at dear 
old Tanglewood, that happy night, the very night 
Arthur Lowell had asked her to be his wife. After 
parting with him she came up-stairs to her friend's 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 409 

room, her mind, heart and soul, filled with the 
ecstatic joy of her first maiden love, and the knowl- 
edge of being loved by a man, she thought her ideal 
of all that is strong, gifted, noble and manly. And the 
sweet sadness which mingled with this great love, as 
the hopes, doubts and fears of the future rose before 
her, and in her eloquence she poured forth to Mary, 
touching upon things spiritual; she said: ‘‘A man 
would rise that would uproot the dead fungus of ma- 
terialism which was stifling the spiritual growth of 
the church/’ This man had come, she felt, in the 
person of Cyrus Alvin. He had that very night put 
her own thoughts, though often dim, vague and 
shapeless, into substance; and they came clothed in 
language beautiful, clear and distinct to her under- 
standing. 

As she sat there for a moment without speaking, 
Potipher Gilphin looked at her and loved her, with 
a love newly born ; the deep, reverent, abiding love 
of the mature man, the exceptional man. For few 
men have this kind of love for women. In all his 
dreams of an ideal woman, he never imagined such as 
she. Once more his sky was blue, and flecked with 
silvery sheened clouds ; once more the earth was fair, 
and glad to him; and life took up a new song, the 
melody of which was sweet and strange, and a touch 
of the spirit of God seemed to vibrate down deep 
into the inner cords of heart and soul, and some of 
the quickening life was given to him. 

‘'I had no idea there was any such fine old house 
to be found in this part of the cit^v»” said Potipher, 


410 


In the Market Place. 


breaking the silence. ''It must have been built years 
ago, and some time since it was used as a family 
residence.’’ 

"It has been used for years as a police station, and 
now that they have moved to their new quarters, 
the city rents it to us for a small sum annually. You 
see what a big, rambling, old place it is, and we find 
it so hard to keep it heated this cold weather ; besides, 
a great expense. Some nights, when the weather is 
very cold, we shelter from thirty to forty women and 
children.” 

"Can it be possible that there can be so many 
homeless women and children in this district?” said 
Potipher, reflectively. "Self preservation is the in- 
stinct of everything that lives, and especially human 
beings, and it seems strange that they do not provide 
some kind of shelter for the winter. What do these 
women do in the daytime for a livelihood ; have they 
no occupation?” 

"Many are strangers in the city; they drift here 
from country towns, come with a few dollars in their 
pockets, thinking to step right into work, without 
giving any account of themselves or what they are 
best fitted to do. Then, in a week or two, they have 
neither money nor work, and make their way here. 
Some are unfortunate girls, that we lead in from the 
streets and try to reclaim ; others are natural tramps. 
They work a few weeks here and there, then quit 
and spend the few dollars they have earned with old 
cronies ; when their money is gone they are destitute, 
have no work or home. And if any of them have 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 41 1 


been here once they come again, and bring some 
other unfortunate with them. The children are waifs 
we gather like the girls off the street, and others are 
brought here by their mothers, who are widows, and 
go out to work by the day ; some of these, I send to 
the home in the suburbs. The women we shelter here 
over night, we generally provide them with a cup of 
coffee and a slice of bread and butter, before starting 
them out in the morning. Those who can give a 
pretty good record of themselve^ we keep until em- 
ployment can be found for them.’’ 

‘'Mrs. Lowell, after what you have told me you 
have made me feel that I have lived a very selfish 
life ; it is true, I have been a very busy man, my large 
business requires my constant attention, but my life 
has run in a rut, a narrow groove, my heart would 
have withered and dried up long ago, if it were not 
for my young daughter; she is the spring that has 
kept one spot in my breast fresh and green. I have 
always treated my employes well, paid them gen- 
erously, and when sick their salaries go on just the 
same. Yet, Mrs. Lowell, I have never given a dollar 
to a church, nor to a charity like this, or to art or 
science. Now that you have brushed the scales from 
my eyes, and I see new vistas ahead; new fields of 
interest, new aspirations. Let me, from to-night on, 
help you in all your undertakings, as I have been 
trying to help you about the boy, since we first met.” 

“Yes, what seems strange to me,” said Gartha, “is 
that the black woman has never returned, or can we 
find any trace of her; or have we received by mail 


412 


In the Market Place. 


or person any inquiries concerning the child. What 
I fear most is that he might be abducted from my 
home, some time when I am away. Since the black 
woman made her appearance the second time, I have 
never let him out of the grounds, and then he is kept 
within eye range of honest John Farrell, who is an 
old retainer of the family, and has been with me since 
I have taken up my residence in my old home. He 
has orders when I am absent and Charley is at play, 
to keep a constant watch upon him. When Pm 
obliged to come to the city, Ann Jordon, my house- 
keeper, who is about as fond of him as I am myself, 
takes the best of care of him.’’ 

“I have made, or rather have caused to be made 
in a roundabout way, inquiries concerning the thou- 
sand dollar note,” said Potipher. ‘‘At first the presi- 
dent of the bank was very reticent about the parties 
drawn upon, but I learned that at the time the money 
was placed in the bank, to the child’s credit, that a 
man whom I have suspected from the first, was seen 
in this country and in this city. I am positive from 
the description given of him, and other incidents 
touching upon the matter that it was he. Although 
he claims to be of foreign name and birth. This man 
is in this city now, but I, and the parties I have at 
work, have not yet been able to locate him. This 
man’s father died nearly four years since, cutting off 
his oldest son with but a dollar ; he is the oldest son, 
and is here to contest the will.” Potipher Gilphin 
rose from his seat, stepped to the window; it was a 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 413 

habit of his to conceal the pain his face might too 
plainly express. 

Gartha rose also and went and stood beside him. 
‘'Dear Mr. Gilphin/’ she said softly, laying her hand 
gently on his shoulder, “if this man is Charles Leigh- 
ton, what has become of Annette Lefarge?’’ 

He turned quickly about and looked at her; there 
were large tears in her eyes. “Yes, it is the oft re- 
peated story,’’ she continued, taking her hand from 
his shoulder, and standing with bowed head,, “it sel- 
dom changes. Luxury, extravagance, profligacy, 
then desertion, cold, hunger, and the street for a bed. 
Sometimes a worse refuge, a gilded hell, a palace of 
shame, either that or marriage without benefit of 
clergy. Yes, Annette Lefarge must also be found.” 

“Why should you concer*^. yourself about Annette 
Lefarge?” he asked, with a quiver of the lip, as he 
looked upon her with worshipful reverence. “This 
man’s desertion of her is but the just retribution of 
her act. She left home, husband and child, for an 
illicit love, which is the most cruel and shameful 
thing a woman can be guilty of.” 

“Oh, my dear Mr. Gilphin, what of the man; do 
you hold him blameless ? Annette Lefarge must have 
been blinded by a strong carnal passion which her 
tempter helped to create. Think of the soft words 
full of poisoned honey he poured in her ear; the 
promises he swore to, the sophistry he used in urging 
her to fling aside all a woman holds dear and sacred : 
home, husband, children, her honor and chastity. Oh 


414 


In the Market Place. 


this terrible carnal passion, which caresses its object 
to-day and slays it on the morrow. This hideous 
thing that men give the beautiful name of love. Oh, 
forgive Annette Lefarge and let us try to find her.’’ 

‘‘For my daughter’s sake, I will try,” he said, bow- 
ing low, “but you iniiJ: help pe and teach me how.” 

The fire in the big, wide grate burned low, casting 
a pale, reddish glow over the room ; its lofty ceilings 
and elaborate mouldings, c contrast " o its poor fur- 
nishing. The curtain of the large window by which 
they stood was drawn up to the top. It looked out on 
a long stretch of yard, and gave a glimpse of the 
roofs and chimneys of the small tenements that clus- 
tered about it, their smoke curling up like blue spiral 
threads, which led the eye to gaze on the purple dome 
above, where the stars peeped out. Then a three- 
quarter moon glanced over the cornice of the win- 
dow, and shot a beam of silver through the panes 
that rested on Potipher’s face, and Gartha saw re- 
flected there something that for a moment sent a 
thrill of joy to her lonely heart, but the next was as 
if an arrow had pierced it, and she made a brush with 
her hand across her forehead, as there rose the silent 
cry, “Get thee behind me, Satan.” 

We will let the curtain fall for a while upon Poti- 
pher and Gartha, and return to the Mission Hall, the 
crowd had thinned considerably, but some were still 
testifying to their belief, faith and hope in God. There 
are two persons seated in one of the long benches 
in the middle of the room that now claim our atten- 
tion. One of them is a small woman, her face is 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 415 

round and full, but looked as if time had pricked, 
dented and puckered its outer envelope, leaving un- 
touched the sweet springs of the heart, which shone 
in the kindly grey eyes and the snow white hair, that 
softened the ruggedness of her features. Her clothes 
were plain, clean and comfortable; her dark woolen 
shawl of Scotch plaid wrapped her whole figure, 
which was as round and plump as her face. Her 
hands were protected from the cold by black cash- 
mere gloves ; and such hands as they were, while 
large and deeply wrinkled and furrowed hard from 
toil ; yet they told the whole story of her life. They 
were such clean hands, such industrious hands, that 
their very nails were worn to the bone. They had for 
years toiled and battled with poverty, the poverty 
which is ennobled and made dignified by characters, 
such as Hetty Connor’s, who brings into the conflict 
a certain sweet poetry. 

By her side sat a youth of about twenty-one or 
two ; he bore a strong resemblance to Hetty in many 
ways, but while she was short, he was tall and had a 
certain squareness of build, with broad shoulders and 
brow, with its sweep of dark auburn hair. The keen, 
honest blue eyes that shone from under them were 
full of buoyancy and the health, strength of hopeful 
young manhood. This was Hetty Connor’s son, she 
had married late in life, and her marriage had proved 
unfortunate, (as a good many marriages do). Her 
husband, a shiftless fellow, had persuaded her, after 
idling around for months, to give into his hands all 
her little, hard-earned savings of years. If she would 


41 6 In the Market Place. 

just set him up in a small business, what a success he 
would make of it. So Hetty did fix him up in a nice 
grocery store ; after he took possession of the grocery 
store he had to keep a drop of the ‘‘crature/' (the 
loving name the Irish give whiskey, also a keg of 
beer on tap). James sat himself down, lord of all he 
surveyed, then squandered the profits, and in two 
years drank himself to death, leaving poor Hetty, at 
the age of thirty-three, with money and grocery store 
gone down in his big maw, and as Hetty took the six- 
months old baby boy in her arms, and pressed its 
wee face to hers, it was not for the brute of a husband 
that had gone, or the money that made the silent 
tears course down her cheeks, but the wrong he had 
done both herself and the child. 

As Hetty and her son leave the Mission we will 
follow on after them to a short street, wedged in be- 
tween two cross streets. The street ran east and 
west and was not more than three or four blocks 
long, where it ended in an alley that led into the main 
thoroughfare which was the Avenue F. In about 
the center of the second block that was thickly set- 
tled by small tenement houses, was a one-story frame 
cottage painted white, with green shutters. It had a 
high gabled roof, that slanted down to a low stoop, 
which ran across its front, forming a wide porch. 
It stood back from the street, leaving a yard of about 
twenty-five feet long, and the same in width. In 
summer this yard bloomed into an Arcadia of flowers 
and green things, under those wonderful hands of 
Hetty Connor’s ; it was guarded over by one solitary 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 417 

maple tree which stood as a sentinel inside the little 
wicker gate, throwing its cool shade along the gravel 
walk, and at night, sang sweet lullabys, when the soft 
winds swept through its branches. At the back of 
this cottage was a long, narrow yard that led to an 
alley; this was parceled off into a vegetable garden, 
the other half being closed in by a high wire fence; 
inside of this fence the old hens laid their eggs and 
cackled and clucked to their broods of chickens. The 
roosters crowed and the turkeys gobbled and they 
kept up a great fuss about nothing, just like the world 
of men and women, who keep up a great racket and 
cackle about less things than an egg. 

The cottage had four rooms and a half, this half, as 
Hetty termed it, was a small wing built off the middle 
room, upon a patch of ground that ran between the 
cottage and the brick wall of a house that stood at 
the head of a row of tenements. The room was ten 
by twelve feet, and had one window facing the front, 
which looked south, with a window and a door open- 
ing into the back yard. 

Now, let us enter this room. The floor is bare, 
with the exception of a strip of bright ingrain carpet 
laid before the stove, one of those half-parlor and 
half cook stoves ; but the boards of the floor are white 
and clean enough to eat from. A black walnut bed- 
stead stands in one corner, clean and neatly dressed, 
with a quilt made of bright patches, (some of Hetty’s 
work), and large feather pillows covered with white 
muslin shams. A dressing-case of the same wood 
stands in a recess opposite the front window, and in 
■■ 2T 


In the Market Place. 


418 

the side near the door was an improvised cupboard, 
screened by red curtains. One large, easy chair and 
a few cane chairs, an old-fashioned double-leafed 
table and a sort of half lounge and half cot spread 
with a gay flowered comfort, occupied the space be- 
tween the stove and south window. The walls were 
not papered, but it was a cheerful room by day, the 
sun shone in the front window, from early morning 
until it set at night, and now the red glow of the fire 
in the stove threw fantastic shadows on the furniture, 
here and there, softening whatever was harsh, and 
giving it an air of homely comfort. And, though 
poor, it was not a bad shelter for a cold winter’s 
night. 

But who is this seated in the big, easy chair ? The 
beautiful head resting on one of the pillows, with its 
crown of rich, lustrous, black hair, contrasting with 
the blue-veined temples and forehead like polished 
marble. The great, sunken eyes, not like caverns, 
now emitting fire that burned the long, dark lashes ; 
but peaceful as a limpid stream and soft as a gazelle’s. 
The long, lithe body and poise of the regal head, tell 
us that it is Annette Lefarge. The woman who, for 
thirteen years passed on the continent of Europe, as 
the countess of the Count Henri de Gascon. And 
who in the opening chapter to this story, we first 
meet, watching that May evening in the Market 
Place, for this same Count, to kill him on sight. After 
her conversion that January night, at the Mission 
Hall, she went no more out in search of the man, who 
had deserted her. For a whole week after she lay on 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 419 

her cot, in the dingy attic room, like one who has 
come out of a long, high fever, in which the brain 
and mind had been the victim of all the fierce pas- 
sions that weigh down, tear and wrench, and at last 
destroy the soul. All these had died in her, leaving 
her like an infant newly born ; but with a rest that was 
of heaven, and a touch of the peace that passeth all 
understanding. Aunt Louise, her maid, looked at her 
dear Miss Annette during this week, and for months 
after, with an ashen face, and wonder and awe in her 
eyes, as she would prepare the little meal and hand 
her Mistis the dainty cup of tea, she would exclaim 
inwardly, ‘Xod, Lod, Di ways am inscrupible 

Every day, during this week, found Cyrus Alvin 
at the side of her cot, where he remained an hour or 
two. Her wonderful conversion had strengthened 
his own faith, if there could be such a thing, and 
proven over and over again the scriptural story of 
Mary Magdalene ; besides, it also brought to his mind 
the words of the apostle Paul to the Galatians, ‘Tor 
I, through the law, am dead to the law, that I might 
live unto God. I am crucified with Christ, never- 
theless I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me, and 
the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith 
of the Son of God, who gave himself for me. For if 
we be dead with Him we shall also live with Him. If 
we suffer, we shall also reign with Him.” — Paul to 
Timothy. 

All the gayety, revelry, dissipation, love, hate, jeal- 
ousy and the desire for revenge on the man whom she 
had loved and sacrificed so much for, and would with 


420 


In the Market Place. 


her small, white, fragile hand have sent the dagger to 
his heart's quick, on sight, was all buried; and the 
man was no more to her now than some actor in life's 
drama, that seemed so far away, yet in which she 
herself, side by side with him, had played a part. 
Yes, the old Annette Lefarge had died, but a new 
Annette was born. 

At the end of the week Cyrus Alvin, who had been 
looking about for more comfortable quarters, for his 
convert and her maid, bethought him of Hetty Con- 
nor, who was a member of the Mission Hall church. 
He called upon her one afternoon and related to her 
some of Mrs. Leighton's story, and what he wished 
to do. Hetty, who happened to be at the Mission 
the night of Mrs. Leighton's conversion, was all at- 
tention. Indeed, Hetty would be glad to do anything 
in her power for Mr. Alvin, and showed him the little 
spare room. '‘It was never used," she said, "an' 
the lady is welcome to it, until she can do better." 
When Cyrus spoke of the rent, she would not listen 
to anything like accepting rent. The Lord had 
blessed her in a thousand ways, she replied, and espe- 
cially in her son, who was doing well, and the little 
room was but a small offering for all His love and 
goodness to herself and boy. 

When the old colored woman and Mrs. Leighton 
had domiciled themselves in the wing of Hetty Con- 
nor’s cottage, Louise was delighted. "It was not jes 
riches, but it wa' like liben nea white folks agin," she 
said to her Mistis Annette. And her Mistis aston- 
ished her with the interest she took in the room, the 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 421 

cottage, the flowers, chickens, and above all Hetty 
Connor and her son. After she had been there five 
or six days she asked Hetty if she could find her some 
sewing to do, embroidery or fancy work. She used 
to be an adept with her needle, (most Southern 
ivomen are), but it was long ago, she was somewhat 
out of practice. Still she would soon pick it up, and 
she knew there must be in a thickly settled neighbor- 
hood like the one they lived in, women with large 
families who could not sew, or would they have time. 
Hetty found her plenty to do in making little aprons 
and dresses for children. For nearly two years and 
a half she would rise at seven in the morning and sew 
for four or five hours, then lie down upon her cot and 
read and rest; she read and studied the New Testa- 
ment in these days, and it became an absorbing in- 
terest to her. She had a quick and brilliant mind, and 
when Cyrus Alvin called, which he did one afternoon 
in every week, they would converse on certain pas- 
sages of scripture, for an hour of two, that was profit- 
able to both. Every evening, when the weather per- 
mitted, she went to the Mission, and of afternoons 
Hetty would bring in her sewing and sit an hour 
with her; this hour had another attraction; it was 
generally along about three o’clock that Hetty 
tapped on the little wing door, and Hetty, as she 
heard the gentle ''Come in,” held something which 
was very tempting in those large, busy hands of hers; 
It was a small tray covered with a napkin, like snow, 
and held the most delicious cup of fragrant tea, with 
cream and sugar, a platter of the freshest butter and 


422 


In the Market Place. 


two light rolls made and baked by Hetty. Oh, they 
were the lovely brown of chestnuts, and their meat in- 
side as rich and flaky, and there was something about 
Annette that the sturdy Hetty took to, I think it was 
her helplessnesss, her lingering illness and the soft, 
lady manners that Mary Reardon spoke of to Martha 
Hays, that captured Hetty’s Christ-loving heart. So 
this was Annette’s life, peaceful, with that peace 
which the world cannot give, until six months before 
this chapter opens, when she began to droop rapidly, 
and three months before she was so ill ^hat Louise 
thought she was going to die, and she begged so hard 
to see the boy she left at the asylum when in this 
country before. For with her new birth there came 
a great love for the child and a yearning to once more 
lay eyes on him, and hold him again in her arms, 
before her final leave-taking of all things earthly, 
that the old colored woman went to the asylum after 
the boy, and from there she was sent to Mrs. Lowell’s 
own home, where Gartha refused her permission to 
take the child out for a few hours ; Louise would tell 
her nothing, holding her mistress’s secrets sacred as 
death itself, and she was faith.ul to the letter, and 
spirit. 

''What kept you so late, Lou ?” she asked as Louise 
wrapped in a heavy shawl, a wool Nubia tied around 
her head, carrying a large basket of coal in one hand 
and a market basket filled with provisions in the other, 
entered. "You’re generally home before dark.” 

"Ye knows, honey, it’s my regula day to wash at 
dose Simmons folks an’ dey hab such a awful big 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 423 

wash ; an’ fo’ a long time Ise hab a little errend ; Ise 
ben a threatenin’ fo’ to do, an’ so Ise jes made up 
my mine, an’ it laid out dar in de neighborhood, whare 
Ise woked, dat when Ise got trough I’d jes go an’ 
tend to it. Den, not known how we off fo’ cole, 
though Mrs. Conna’s she mighty good about cole an’ 
a keepin’ up de fia fo’ ye, so Ise jes went to de sto’ 
an’ got a basket of cole an’ kindlin’, an’ a few gro- 
ceries; an’ now, honey, Ise hab de wata boilin’ in a 
few seconds, an’ make ye a nice pot ob tea, an’ a 
plate ob butta toast. Ye seed Aunt Lou habn’t fogot 
her Mistis yet. No, honey, no, neber ye worry about 
dis ole woman, fo’ yares Ise shared ole Mistis’s 
daughter’s riches, ye was mighty good to me, my Miss 
Annette, an’ now, honey, dea, so long as old Aunt Lou 
is able to earn a crust, she’ll shar it wid ole Missus’ 
daughter. We’s ben mighty hard up sometimes, but 
de Lod hab alway provided, an’ now since He hab 
sent Dr. Alvin an’ Mrs. Connas we hab nebba 
wanted.” 

She had taken off her shawl and Nubia, and put the 
water on to boil for the tea, and then drew up the 
table in front of Mrs. Leighton’s couch, spread over 
it a white cloth, one Mrs. Conner gave her; it was 
patched and darned here and there by Annette’s long, 
slim fingers, and washed white as snow by Aunt 
Louise, and ironed without a wrinkle. She went to 
the cupboard, took down the white porcelain cup and 
saucer, and the little blue delf sugar bowl, the same 
she had in the tenement house in the alley, filled it 
with granulated sugar from a paper package she had 


4^4 In the Market Place. 

in the basket, she brought home with her. She then 
poured the boiling water on the tea, which she had 
previously put in a small tin teapot, with just enough 
water to steep. She took from the basket a large 
Vienna loaf of bread, cut several slices, opened the 
stove door, where there was a nice bed of coals, and 
toasted them and spread them with butter. Aunt 
Louise’s buttered toast, like her coffee, hot biscuit 
and corn-bread, all the expert cooks of the whole of 
Europe could not touch. Oh, dear, will we miserable 
gone mad Americans ever taste the like of such cook- 
ing again, in these days of quick meals, and devilish 
frys, as these old-time blacks gave us? She placed 
her plate of buttered toast on the table, with a glass 
of grape jelly, poured out the tea, which Annette rose 
to sip ; then Louise filled her own blue delf cup with 
tea, put in some cream and sugar, cut a slice of the 
loaf of bread, buttered it, drew a chair up to the stove, 
and seated herself on the opposite side from her 
Mistis in her usual, unselfish way. It was the first 
mouthful she had eaten since a light lunch at noon. 

‘'Have you ever thought of going to the Home 
again, Louise, since the day I lay so very ill that you 
thought I was going to die?” asked Annette, after a 
Silence of some minutes, and venturing to speak on a 
subject so near her heart. 

“Wei, Mistis, honey, as Ise hab sed befo’, deys no 
use bovern about de chile, Ise went to de Home, de 
las time, as I tole ye, case, honey, ye was so sick an’ 
begged so hard to seed him. Ise thought if Ise jest 
could fotch him fo’ a little while an’ lets ye look on 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 425 

his face once mo’, it would console an’ comfot ye 
befo’ ye crossed ova to de shinen choa ob de unseen 
Ian’. When Ise got to de Home, whar Ise lef him 
when he a baby, de Matron sent me to de president’s 
own home whar she hab taken him to raise hersef ; 
an’ when Ise seed her, Ise hab nothin’ to say, but dis 
wise, dat I’d like to take de chile away, jes fo’ a few 
hours. Ise could tells nothin’, an’ explains nothin’, 
an’ she’d not gib de chile to me. Ise knows, honey, 
its mighty hard, but de chile is caed fo’, he hab a 
lovely home, jes like some ob dose ole homes in de 
Souf, an’ de president, as Ise tole ye de fust time, 
Ise neber seed her like befo’, she mo like a gran’ 
lady. Mistis, dea,” she said softly, after a pause, and 
seeing the tears course down Annette’s cheek, ‘Vhat 
could ye do wid de chile, as Ise hab tole ye befo’, 
honey, ye’d only fotch him to misery. If anyting 
hoppen to ye, Mistis, dea, what would become ob de 
chile? So, honey, don’ worry yesef, ye’s hab jes got 
ober such a bad spell, an’ ye’s ben so hopeful an’ 
peaceful, since Mista Alvin come in yere life, dat de 
good Lod will hab de chile fotched to ye, if it’s His 
will, honey. Jes rest in Him, Mistis, dea.” 

‘‘You know, Lou, ever since that night, just such a 
January night as this, I have taken no steps nor put 
forth no effort to find him; he is in the city, but I 
shall never disturb him. I have but a short while to 
live, there is only two things I would like before I 
die, if it were possible to bring them about. One is 
to see my son, the other to have my husband’s and 
daughter’s forgiveness. I did them a great wrong, 


426 


In the Market Place. 


Lou, that night so long ago, it seems now. You re- 
member it well, Lou; I left all for the man who de- 
serted me ; I was a bad, thoughtless, pleasure-loving 
woman. 

Aunt Louise sat with her head bowed, her black 
wrinkled hands clasped together and resting on her 
lap ; a sort of gray pallor overspread her face, as she 
said, ‘‘Ise ben a great sinna, too, Mistis, but Ise ben 
made so happy, since yere conversion; neba, honey, 
in de dakest day, an’ we hab had many ob dem, did 
Ise spec de light to come to ye. No, honey, my Miss 
Annette, neba, neba did Ise dream it wid come to ye. 
An’ now, Mistis, ye hab suah, suah, found de peace. 
Dr. Alvin tells ob, suah, suah ; Ise an eye-witness ob 
it mysef. An’ ye’s comfotable an’ with his holp an’ 
mine, an’ Mrs. Conna’s giben us de room free ob 
rent, we hab kept de wolf fom de doa.” And the old 
black woman bent her head in thanks, and so did 
Annette Lefarge, once queen of the Bohemian beau- 
monde of Paris, the gayest city on the continent of 
Europe. 

Before we take leave of Hetty Conner’s cottage 
we must give a peep into the little back kitchen, 
where is seated Hetty and her son Frank. The 
kitchen was heated by a large cook-stove that shone 
in its black polish like a mirror. The stove stood in 
the center of the hearth of a big open fireplace, and 
here and there were spread, over the floor, the boards 
of which were spotlessly clean, strips of bright rag- 
carpet, made by Hetty’s own hands, in her leisure 
moments. Frank was seated near the stove, one 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 427 

elbow resting on an old-fashioned double-leafed table 
of walnut. A Japanese shade covered the large lamp 
that burned in its center and threw a pinkish glow 
over all objects in the room; over the big kitchen 
cupboard that reached nearly to the ceiling, mingling 
with its soft warmth and adding to it a home-like 
comfort. 

Hetty was seated in an old rocking-chair, she had 
sat in this chair for many years ; indeed, it was almost 
as old as Hetty herself, and as brown and mellow. 
Its broad wooden seat had a cushion made of bright 
worsted patches and padded with cotton. And its 
high, broad back afforded great rest to Mrs. Connor’s 
chubby form, when tired after the day’s work, and 
the many little household duties were finished. She 
sat before the stove, with her white head leaning 
against the back of the rocker, her arms crossed over 
her bosom, her large hands tucked in the folds of her 
elbows. Hetty’s hands seemed to always want to 
hide themselves when not at work, as if it were an 
unpardonable sin not to be busy. As if all at once 
they became conscious of their roughness, redness 
and ugliness, and wanted to hide away. When at 
work they were all right, they were perfectly satisfied. 
Still, with all their largeness and roughness, they 
were such nimble, dexterous hands. They feared 
nothing in the shape of pots, pans and dishes, no mat- 
ter how fine, and as for scrub-brushes and brooms, 
they could wield them with any hands that were ever 
made. They were merciless to dust, which hid in 
corners, and the long cobwebs that festoon ceilings ; 


42 8 


In the Market Place. 


no use trying, they never escaped Hetty's broom. 
And in the use of garden spade and trowel they were 
so tender in digging up the earth about the flowers 
in her garden that they grew and thrived under her 
care, and at her touch gave out their sweetest per- 
fume. When it came to bread and biscuit-making, 
raised rolls and baking in general, they defied any 
hands extant. Yet, for all, Hetty's hands were ex- 
ternally ugly; still they were wonderfully alive, not 
like many fair, white, jewelled hands, that are really 
withered, useless, dead hands. 

'‘Well, mother, I was never so surprised in all my 
life when I looked about me to-night at the Mission 
and saw sitting to the right of me in a corner near 
the door, Mr. Gilphin," said Frank, tipping his chair 
back, and leaning his head against the wall. 

"Are you sure it wie him, my bairn ?" 

"Am I sure it wie him, — well, mother, to ask me 
such a question, as if I wouldn't know a man that I 
see a hundred times a day, and every day, since I 
were a boy fourteen years old. I don't think, mother, 
I would be likely to be mistaken." 

"A man like Mr. Gilphin, my son, who lives on the 
other side of the city, in the western suburbs, would 
na want to leave his home a night sa cold as this to 
come three or four miles to our Mission. An' I think 
I heard you say that he wa na a believer in any 
church." 

"I only know, mother, what I have heard the clerks 
and salesmen say, that he don't belong to any church. 
What his belief is, that is another thing. But a better 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 429 

man to his employes never lived. Think what a 
friend he has been to me and to you, mother, through 
me, although he has never laid eyes on you but once, 
the morning you came with me to the store ; he said 
to me the day before, after he had engaged me, as I 
was leaving his office, to be sure and fetch my mother 
with me in the morning when I came. I can only 
guess from what Mr. Kerns told me that he just 
wanted to have a look at you. And every year since 
I first went into his employ as a little office boy, he has 
raised my salary and promoted me, and think of him 
giving me Jim Roger’s place. What a pity of poor 
Jim, and his mother a widow. 

'Three times Mr. Gilphin took him back on prom- 
ises to do better and keep out of bad company ; but 
when he took that five hundred dollars and it was 
proven that he did, and he finally acknowledged to it, 
Mr. Gilphin let him go without prosecuting him. 
Many a man, mother, would have sent him to the 
pen for much less ; but he never spoke of it to any 
one in his employ; yet, it got out some way. Now, 
I have a desk in the office of the manager of the third 
floor ; I keep all the order accounts of the floor ; I also 
take the orders from the men, and make change and 
have charge of the money in that department, until 
Mr. Kerns comes and counts it over. And all the 
while, mother, I am gaining in knowledge of the 
goods, as I hope to become a first-class salesman,” 
said Frank with pride. 'T suppose,” he continued, 
a flush rising to his cheek, "that I shall not be sent 
of errands now to Snow-ball hill, and I shall see Miss 


430 


In the Market Place. 


Elsie and her old dog Beppo no more. Oh, mother, 
Miss Elsie is lovely, such a dainty, fairy-like thing; 
she is Mr. Gilphin’s only child, her mother died when 
she was a baby, and she has been reared by an elderly 
lady who takes charge of Mr. Gilphin’s house. The 
first two years I was in the office, Mr. Gilphin used to 
send me to his house about twice a week with Tom, 
and a light spring wagon, filled with all sorts of good 
things, boxes of different kinds of fruit, boxes of nuts 
and raisins ; we got to be such friends. Miss Elsie and 
iryself. One day, a little while before she went away 
to school, I was sent to Snow-ball hill with the wagon 
and Tom. I happened to meet her in the grounds as 
I came from the house, and of course old Beppo was 
not far off. She asked me to take her for a drive in 
the spring wagon, and teased me so hard that I told 
her to jump in, but her father mustn’t blame me if I 
were late back to the store. 'Oh, I will make it all 
right with papa,' she said. Now, I said, 'where do 
you want to go ?’ 

" 'Take the road down by the railroad to the pond, 
and you will see, when we come to it, Beppo give a 
plunge in,’ (for the dog had followed her into the 
wagon,) 'he can swim like a duck and it’s such fun 
to see him.’ When she and the dog got up beside me 
I whipped up Tom. Tom was a spanken fine horse, 
and the way he did go ; the day was lovely and cool, 
one of those late September days, that if a fellow has 
any poetry in his soul he feels glad that he lives. 
'Isn’t this jolly,’ she cried, as we went flying past the 
trees, on the roadside. When I got back to the store 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 431 


I told Mr. Gilphin about it. 'Well/ he said, smiling, 
'she generally gets everybody about Snow-ball hill to 
obey her.’ 

"Then she went away to school, and I thought 
when she returned a young lady, she wouldn’t know 
me any more, but she happened to get a glimpse of 
Tom and the wagon, coming up the lane, and if she 
didn’t come bounding out upon the back porch when 
I drew up before it. Oh, she was so glad to see me, 
mother, she could hardly make enough of me; she 
said I had grown so big and manly looking, and when 
I heard her speak like that I was for a minute I could 
hardly see ; I felt so proud to be so complimented by 
her.” And Frank’s broad, handsome face burned 
with pleasure as he related to his mother Elsie Gil- 
phin’s cordial greeting of him, after her long absence 
at school. 

Hetty Conner’s heart leaped with love of her son, 
while her eyes glanced with pride upon his face, which 
looked so beamingly to hers, but she turned her head 
to one side and her hands snuggled under her arm-pits 
as she replied, with a note of sternness in her voice : 
"You must put Miss Gilphin out of your thoughts; 
it’s na for the like of you to be thinken a her; now 
that she’s a young lady. It wa all well enough when 
you wa both small to do her a kindness, to amuse an’ 
please her ; but now, me son, it’s different ; you’re na 
anything but a lad yoursel, an’ it’s time enough these 
ten year to come to be thinkin’ of the lassies.” 

"Was just telling you, mother, how lovely she is; 
I can at least have the privilege of admiring her. 


43 2 In the Market Place. 

Love me, love my dog; I like Mr. Gilphin, and Pm 
sure I can like his daughter, if I want to. I suppose 
you will say, mother, if I keep it to myself, but I 
thought, mother, I would let you into my secret and 
get you to help me keep it,” returned Frank, with a 
hearty laugh. Then, rising, he went to the stove, 
lifted one of the lids, poked the fire, and filled the 
stove with coal from a coal-scuttle standing by; re- 
placed the lid and closed the stove up tight for the 
night. 

“Canna think what brought Mr. Gilphin, if it were 
he, to the Mission, unless it wa to hear Dr. Alvin 
preach.” 

‘‘That is just what brought him, mother,” said 
Frank, standing before her with the coal-scuttle in 
his hand, the picture of strong, young manhood. “He 
may have been in the neighborhood ; we have a large 
wholesale trade in our line, with the merchants on the 
Avenue, he may have been in to see one of his cus- 
tomers, and hearing it was Dr. Alvin’s night to 
preach, he dropped into the Mission. How is Mrs. 
Leighton off for coal, mother? She mustn’t want for 
any this cold weather ; I will take her a big, heaping 
scuttle full before I go to bed. Have you ever heard 
anything about her, mother ? Who she is, and if she 
has anybody belonging to her ?” 

“Not a word, only what Dr. Alvin tole me when he 
first came to ask me about the room, an’ if I would 
take her until he could find another home. He tole 
me that she had been a rich lady, a very worldly 
woman, and he found her an’ the ole black woman, 


Ill Winds That Blow Some One Good. 433 

her servant, in a very destitute condition, that the ole 
black woman wa her mother’s slave, an’ the lady’s 
nurse from the day she was born, an’ she had no sup- 
port only what the old servant earned by doing a 
day’s work here an’ there, or wherever she could get 
it. An’ that her conversion wa a great miracle, an’ 
that God an’ His Son wa greatly glorified by it. I 
canna get a word out of the ole black woman about 
their past, only that she said she wa’ na used to doin’ 
hard work, that she had nothing to do but wait on 
her Mistress, an’ travel about wie her.” 

‘‘We can’t let her be cold or hungry while with us, 
mother.” 

“Ah, my bairn, it would be poor return to the Lord 
for his many blessin’s to us,” said Hetty, as Frank 
picked up two large, empty coal buckets and went 
out to the coal shed and filled them full to the han- 
dles. One he carried around to the door of the wing 
room that led into the back yard. He gave one or 
two gentle knocks, it was opened softly by Aunt 
Louise. “A bucket of coal for the morning,” said 
Frank, and hurried away. Then he brought in two 
for his mother, filled the middle room stove, where 
Hetty slept, bid his mother good-night, and went to 
the front room to bed. 

“Oh, my bonny boy ; the ole sayin’, ‘It’s an ill wind 
that blows no one good,’ my marriage wa my ill 
wind, but you came wie it, an’ what a comfort you be 
to me, what blessed care you take of me in my ole 
age. May our Father in heaven take care a you 
always, an’ keep you through your whole life from the 
28 


434 


In the Market Place, 


evil winds, that blow about every human being unless 
good come wie it.” 

She rose up from her seat, turned round and knelt 
down by her chair. We will leave her kneeling there, 
in her black dress, her large hands crossed on her 
breast, her head thrown back, the bands of white 
hair, softening her round, wrinkled, but happy face. 
Her eyes raised to the ceiling, and her lips uttering 
heartfelt thankfulness to her heavenly Father, giver 
of all good, for the many blessings of her old age, 
and asking blessings upon her son, her house and all 
in it. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE OED BEACK WOMAN PUSHED HER HOOD BACK OEE 
HER face, and whispered ‘"mASSA.” 

To Aunt Louise, who had been an upper servant 
in the home of her owner, and shared with her white 
people their comforts, plenty and luxury, and had 
never in all her life before known what hard work or 
privation of any kind meant, not even the respon- 
sibility of thinking for herself, her present situation 
was often a Chinese puzzle to her. She could not get 
it through her head why her young Mistis, her Miss 
Annette, should be deserted, cast down from her high 
place, from wealth and luxury, which had always been 
hers, and which she thought rightfully belonged to 
her, because from her birth she had never known 
aught but their invironment. The negroes are still 
children; to them the white man and wealth are 
synonymous ; in trouble, misfortune and poverty they 
still look to him for help. The reason of this, the 
white man has stripped the negro and all the dark 
races of all power and the right of self-reliance, to 
think, act and judge for themselves ; therefore, their 
utter helplessness. They are not just bought and 
sold ; yet their condition is worse servitude now than 
before the name of freedom was given them ; for the 

435 


436 


In the Market Place. 


slave’s master will feed and clothe his slaves, while we 
now take away every resource of advancement and 
leave them to shift for themselves. The old black 
woman had studied the matter over in her own mind, 
studied long, and with a certain shrewdness, which 
some of the more intelligent of the blacks evince to a 
great degree. She had all the imagination of her 
race, with a certain keen observation, and more than 
the average black servant’s intelligence. Serving as 
maid and companion to her Mistress in all her travels 
and coming in contact, as she did, with people of the 
fashionable, smart, fast set, gave her a varied expe- 
rience, and also sharpened her wits. In going about 
as she now did from family to family, in the different 
neighborhoods, she kept her eyes and her ears open, 
and at last traced the Count Henri de Gascon to his 
lodgings, which were in a small, quiet, unpretentious 
hotel, situated, as was said, in the suburbs, and fre- 
quented mostly by rich country farmers, coming in 
and going out, from the city to their homes. 

The proprietor saw but little of the Count de Gas- 
con, the gentleman whom his clerks thought a for- 
eigner of some distinction and quiet habits. Once a 
month, he paid his rent in advance ; he ate little at the 
restaurant of the hotel, so in a sense was a compara- 
tive stranger to the proprietor and clerks. The hotel 
stood upon the corner of a street running east and 
west, its front faced the south, and one side, the west, 
which ran back half a block ; the ladies’ entrance being 
on the west side. Back of the hotel was a large open 


The Old Black Woman. 


437 


lot, the hotel and the lot taking in the whole block. 
Aunt Louise was passing here one day, about ten in 
the morning, when she saw a gentleman coming out of 
the restaurant, cross the street, and turn up the 
avenue that led to the western suburbs. The old, black 
woman nearly fainted, for she had a full view of the 
Count’s face, as he emerged from the door of the 
restaurant. She would have known him anywhere; 
his back, height, the swing and grace of his handsome 
figure, and an elegance peculiar to him, with which 
she was familiar for years. She drew her sun-bonnet 
over her forehead, and her shawl up about her neck. 

She did not follow him, but went into the hotel 
office and inquired if a gentleman lived there by the 
name of Leighton, thinking he would not be apt to 
give his assumed title in a house of that kind and in 
his own city. An answer came in the affirmative. Yes, 
a gentleman by that name had apartments there. 
She said she would like to be taken to his room, as 
he had left a bundle of linen to be washed and mended 
and she had come to get it. This was nothing un- 
usual for colored women to come for gentlemen’s 
washing ; indeed, it was quite the custom before laun- 
dries became so common, as nearly all family and 
other washing was done by the black women. The 
clerk called a bell boy to take her to the gentleman’s 
room, No. 5, on the third floor. When they reached 
the room, the boy called to the chamber-maid to 
come and look for the linen, but she was too busy, 
and told the boy to look himself. The boy saw no 


In the Market Place. 


43 3 

bundle and Louise, having gained her object, said 
she would come again, and hurried away down the 
steps. 

For nearly a month she loitered about the hotel, 
waiting and watching for the Count, until she had 
learned his habits. She found that he generally came 
in about five o’clock every afternoon, and went out 
about seven, dressed in full evening toilet. Some- 
times an elegant family landau, with livery and all 
the paraphernalia of wealth waited at the door of the 
ladies’ entrance on him. 

On the evening of the day when we are first intro- 
duced to Hetty Conner, her cottage, the wing, and its 
two occupants, in the last chapter, Aunt Louise after 
finishing her washing, which she did about four 
o’clock, made her way direct to the hotel. The house 
she had been working in was in the neighborhood, 
and she had not far to walk to the hotel; she went 
straight to the ladies’ entrance, told the door-keeper 
what she wanted, and passed on up the stairs to the 
third floor, to the Count’s room. No. 5. It was the 
end room in a short hall, which cut off a corner of the 
long central hall, and was dimly lighted by one gas 
jet, which burned at the entrance in the main hall. 

She half crouched in a dark recess formed by the 
door of the Count’s room and a window at the end, so 
that those who should happen to pass by in the cen- 
tral hall would not see her. She had not long to wait, 
in less than ten minutes, the Count made his appear- 
ance. He did not observe her, and had just turned 
the key in the lock of his door when she came from 


The Old Black Woman. 


439 


her hiding place, pushed her hood back off her face, 
and whispered, ''Massa.” He stepped a pace or two 
back, his face a deathly ashen hue, as he gasped, 
‘Xouise,” then caught her by the shoulders with both 
hands, wheeled her about and pushed her into the 
room, took the key from the outside, shut the door, 
and locked it on the inside, then struck a match and 
lighted the gas. 

‘‘Sacre,” he hissed between his teeth, as he re- 
moved his hat, and threw it upon the sofa. ‘'Now, in 
the name of the Seine and Tiber, the seven hills of 
Rome, the Danube, and every other damnable thing, 
where did you come from ? What brought you here, 
and where did you leave your Mistress?’’ He asked 
all these questions in such a low, hissing voice that 
they were almost inaudible, and with such a strange 
look on his handsome face, so unlike its good- 
natured indolent, careless expression of other days, 
that the old, black woman for a moment lost her 
courage, and trembled with fear like a leaf in the 
wind. “Where is your Mistress?” he repeated. “Is 
she here, or did you leave her in Paris? Tell me the 
truth,” he cried, seeing that she hesitated, and step- 
ping over to where she stood he took her by the 
shoulder, “tell me the truth ; if you don’t I will never 
let you leave this room alive.” 

“Oh, Massa, Massa Charley, dat’s what Ise come 
to fine out ; Ise trabled all de way f’om Pa’is to fine 
you an my Miss Annette, an ye means to tells me dat 
my Miss Annette is not hea wid ye. Oh, Massa, Ise 
soa tried, so troubled, an’ so poare, Ise gone hungry 


440 


In th^ Market Place. 


fo’ days an’ whole days an' nights, not a spec ob food 
hab dis ole woman hab to eat. Ise walked fo’ miles 
an’ miles, to fine ye an’ my Mistis an’ ye says she 
not wid ye.” 

‘‘Stop, hush ; you are lying to me,” he cried, catch- 
ing her by the throat, “now tell me the truth,” he 
hissed, shaking her, “and answer my questions. 
When did you leave Paris ?” 

“Honey, Massa Count, Ise ben so troubled, an’ so 
po-are, an’ so cole an’ hungry, Ise walked so much, 
an’ trabled so far, dat Ise sort ob stupid like an’ can’t 
remember; but Ise ben a lookin’ an’ a lookin’ fo ye 
an’ Mistis.” 

“Did you leave your Mistress in Paris ?” 

“Did ye, Massa?” 

“Answer me one question at a time, and if you 
don’t answer me truthfully I will kill you. Tell me 
when and what dzy your Misstress left her apartment 
in Paris.’' 

“It was dis wise, Massa; when ye’d ben gone a 
week or two. Miss Annette tole me ye was a cornin’ 
home in a few days, an’ den we was all gwyan back to 
oua own country. Ise so glad, massa, as Ise neba 
could bare foreign ways. Den, afta foar or five weeks 
pass, seein’ ye didn’t come home, my Miss Annette 
she grew so pale an’ droopy, goin’ about de house 
wid her white lips shet tight, an’ a sayin' nuffin, an’ 
my heart a-breaken. Den, one monin’ I got up de 
usual time, an’ when Ise hab de coffee ready, Ise 
made de coffee mysef, fo’ she hab sent away Jacques 
an’ his Madame, Ise thanked de Lod fo’ it. It seem 


The Old Black Woman. 


441 


like ole times to hab dem foeign savents gone, Ise 
call dem savents, fo’ dey was no white folks, no 
Christians, no did dey speak de Christian lan- 
guage. Ise always did hate foeign ways. Jacques 
an’ his Madame lied an’ cheated wid every breaf dey 
draw, dey cheated my Mistis out ob her eyes, an’ 
stole f’om her wheneber dey got de chance. My ole 
Mistis, Miss Annette’s mother, she teached me dat it 
was wrong to tell a lie an’ to cheat.” 

''Don’t want to hear about that now; when you 
carried the coffee to your Mistress’s room did you 
find her there?” 

"No, Massa, she hab gone.” 

"Gone ,” he almost screamed, that is, if a man 

ever did scream, (I believe they either roar, groan or 
holler, but whatever noise his highness, the Count, 
did make, it struck poor Louise dumb with fright, 
and her face, for a moment became gray as ashes. 
"Well, go on,” he cried, after a long pause, "be quick 
and tell me what happened ?” 

"It was dis wise, Massa,” replied Louise, rallying 
from her fright, "Ise wait, an’ wait, fo’ Mistis to come 
home, but late in de day, a man come wid a writ, an’ 
sed he hab to take the furniture an’ close de ’part- 
ments. Ise jes went nearly wile, when Ise heered dat, 
an’ my Miss Annette spirited off in dat way, dat Ise 
cried mysef sick. Ise tole de folks in de ’partment 
house, Ise wanted to go back to my own home, an’ 
my own dea Ian’ an’ people ; like Ruth in de scripture, 
Ise wanted to die an’ be buried wid my own white 
folks. Ise hab libed a long time in foeign pa’ts wid 


44^ Iri the Market Place. 

my Mistis, but Ise neba got used to dey ways; Ise 
wanted to go to my own white people, dat Ise bon 
among. A gentleman dat knowed ye an' Mistis come 
an' fotched me to his house, an' de nex day he fotched 
me to de 'Merican Consol, an' Ise tole him my story. 
Dat Ise was Miss Annette's savent, an' her mother's 
savent, an' bon, an' my mother befo' me, in ole 
Mistis's an’ Massa's home, on de plantation in de 
Souf, de Ian’ white wid de orange blossom an’ sweet 
wid de scent ob de magnolia tree. An' old Mistis she 
reared me in de house, f'om de time Ise was eleven 
yares ole, an' kept me about her own pussen. Den 
when she ma'ed, Ise helped her to rear all her chilen, 
an' now dey all dead, but my Miss Annette, dat dese 
ole a'ms hold when she fust opened her eyes to dis 
world, an’ now she seem to hab ben spirited off. He, 
de Consol, gib me some money an' put me aboad de 
ship, an' it sailed away fo' home; an' sich a time as 
Ise hab a gittin' hea. Ise hab walk an’ walk, fo’ 
miles, until my feet beald, an’ big lumps come on 
dem; oh, Massa, Massa, dis ole woman hab ben 
sorely done by. Ise always ben ca'ed fo', Ise always 
hab a plenty, an’ now Ise so ole, to be pestered in dis 
way, to be put out like Hagar into de wilderness, an' 
by de people Ise seved all my life." 

The Count rose, took a pace or two, his face was 
white as death, and his eyes, which seemed to sink 
back under his brows, burned with fierce and deadly 
anger. This old, black woman, as she stood before 
him in her scanty clothing, shivering with cold, who 
had served him 9 ^ faithfully as she had her Mistress, 


The Old Black Woman. 


443 


brought to him no regrets, no sweet memories of the 
long years which he and the beautiful Annette Le- 
farge had dwelt together; or for one moment soft- 
ened his heart to pity. On the contrary, the sight of 
her coming upon him now, when his one thought, 
one aim in life, was to marry Miss Graham and her 
money. The thing he thought was so near achieve- 
ment stirred all the latent evil in him. Evil passions 
nursed, pampered and fed until they had grown up 
within him, to become, as it were, full-fledged wild 
beasts ; that only doze and sleep until the opportune 
moment, when they rise in all their ferocity. He 
could then and there have struck the old, black 
woman dead ; he could have struck Annette down and 
walked over her dead body, if she stood in his way, 
to the gaining of his purpose. (Thus in a moment 
we become devils or angels.) Aunt Louise, brave as 
she was, and loving her dying mistress as she did, 
shivered with fear, under the cruel pitilessness of his 
gaze. 

^^Do you know, did the Count de Noailles visit 
your Mistress at any time between the period I left 
for this country and her disappearance ? Answer me 
truthfully,'’ he said, threateningly, stepping close to 
her and grasping her by the shoulder, with a grip of 
iron. 

"T seed no gentleman at de 'partments, Massa, only 
de one dat fotched me to his home, an' he lib in de 
Apartment house," she answered, drawing herself 
from him, as he loosened his grasp upon her. 

‘(What part of the city do you live in?" 


444 


In the Market Place. 


‘‘Ise lib nowhar in particular, Massa, Ise libs jes 
whar Ise gits mose wo’k to do in families. Ise some- 
times fines lodgin’ wid an’ ole white woman, who hab 
a little room, she poa like mysef, but she mighty 
good to me. If Ise could jes gits me a little room to 
mysef, Massa, Ise be mo comfotable, Ise so poa, it 
’pears, Ise neber ken gits de money together to rent 
a little room.” 

‘'There, take that,” and he threw upon the table a 
ten dollar bill; “times are not what they used to be 
with myself. Get a small room and let me know 
where you ke^ yourself, and in the meantime keep 
up a strict watch and outlook for your Mistriss. If 
you should happen to find her or learn of her where- 
abouts, come immediately and acquaint me of it. 
Come in a few weeks, anyway, and let me know where 
you have located ; be here about the same hour you 
came this afternoon. If I should leave here before 
you come round again, inquire at the office for my 
address ; if not, wait in the same place you did this 
evening until my arrival.” 

Aunt Louise picked up the money she had risked 
her life for, and with many “Thank ye, Massa,” left the 
room. In a few moments she was out upon the 
streets ; she could not have earned that much money 
in four or five weeks, and then it would only have 
come to her in dribs and drabs. Now she would buy 
coal and dainty things to eat for her poor Miss An- 
nette, her “dea dying young Mistis,” whom she 
nursed in her cradle. 

“Oh, Lody, Lody,” she cried within herself, as she 


The Old Black Woman. 


445 


made her way through the halls, down the stairs, and 
out the door of the ladies' entrance to the street, ‘‘Ise 
tried mightily not to lie, an' Ise didn't ; it all hoppened 
as Ise tole it, only my Mistis was along. She dying 
now an' Ise want de money fo' her ; de Lod Himsef 
say, 'Be ye wise as sapents an’ ha’mless as doves.’ 
Who hab thought Massa Count id be so base an' 
treacherous to Miss Annette, who he peared to jes 
waship ; human nature so mighty deceitful, an' dey's 
no pendence to be placed in de men, dey always leab 
de woman soona or lata, when dey habn't de sanction 
ob de Lod. Da is no use now ob dem eber knowin' 
dat dey bofe am right hea in dis town ; my Miss An- 
nette mus neba know of Massa Charley ben hea ; she 
a dying, an' she mus die in peace. Oh, if ole Mistis 
was a liben, an' seed Miss Annette, her chile. Oh, 
blessed Lod, Ise thank ye she's ben spared this sor- 
row. An' ole Massa if he libed, he take no foolish- 
ness f'om Massa Charley; he rise in his might an' 
shoot Massa Count down in his tracks; he, Massa 
Charley, would no lib an hour, mins Ise tell ye. But 
deys all dead, de Civil wa kill my ole Massa, he loss 
so much ; yes, dey all dead, an' poa Miss Annette she 
soon go, too, an' de ole, black woman, be lef all 'lone. 
Blessed Lod, it's Di will an' best so." And the brave 
old creature took the corner of her apron and wiped 
the tears that ran down and scorched her cheeks, as 
she trudged home in the snow and biting cold of the 
January night. 

Aher the Count closed the door on Aunt Louise he 
paced up and down the floor for several minutes. 


r 


446 


In the Market Place. 


The old woman whom he thought safe in Europe 
with her mistress, had suddenly crossed miles of sea 
and land, and risen up before him, a dark, menacing 
spectre of his past ; right on the eve of the realization 
of his now most cherished and delightful dream. Oh, 
this past, the cruel, but just past, holding in its right 
hand the balancing scales, the left with forefinger 
pointing to the record. If the Count could he would 
with one sweep of his hand, put his past from him, 
blot it out forever. As we sow we reap; this is fair 
and should be so. 

But what had become of Annette? Where could 
she have gone? he asked himself, as a hundred dif- 
ferent thoughts concerning her crowded his mind. 
If she had gone to live with the Count de Noailles 
she would have taken her old, black servant with her. 
Could it be that Louise had lied to him, or that An- 
nette was still in , Paris, and had rid herself of her 
maid, and gone to leading the life of a courtesan, a 
demi monde, and did not want her mother’s slave to 
know. Ah, — could it be, — and there passed over the 
Count’s face a strange gleam, as the thought came to 
him. ‘'Death, by suicide, found drowned in the 
Seine.” Hideous thought it was, but he experienced 
relief in it; then he brushed it aside. Yes, he must 
hasten his marriage; he must not let another night 
pass without urging Effie to have the civil ceremony 
take place immediately before her reception, which 
was to come off in a week. He stopped pacing the 
floor, went and leaned his arm upon the mantle-piece. 
“Bah,” he hissed, “she could do nothing if we were 


The Old Black Woman. 


447 


once married; but if she should appear upon the 
scene before the ceremony she might make things 
deucedly uncomfortable for a fellow/’ He stepped to 
the middle of the room, took out his watch, looked at 
it, then removed his overcoat, which he had forgot- 
ten to do when he first came in, and laid it on a table 
that stood in one corner, and began to dress, as he 
was to escort Miss Graham to the opera that evening, 
and it was nearly seven o’clock. In half an hour he 
entered her carriage, which she had ordered to be 
sent to his hotel, and which awaited him at the ladies’ 
entrance. 


CHAPTER VIL 


SHI) ROSE UP, HER cheeks AEEAME, AND A EIGHT, 
AS COED AS the GEEAM OE HER DTAMOMDS, 
EEASHED EROM HER EYES. 

The Weston Villa was one of those houses that a 
man builds late in life, but never occupies. It stood 

to the north of Terrace Q , about four or five 

squares farther west in the suburbs, yet in its most 
fashionable quarter. It occupied about half a block 
of ground on one of the wide Boulevards, which 
edge the city’s great park. The lower story was 
built of brown stone, rough hewn, and the upper 
stories of pressed brick, with cornice trimmings of 
the stone. Its architecture was like most modern 
houses, a jumble of Queen Anne, Gothic and Doric, 
with large dormer windows in its half-gable and con- 
ical, pointed roofs. The lower story had a wide 
piazza in front and running along the left side. On 
the right, a broad carriage drive wound up from the 
street, to a porte-cochere. The interior was finished 
in the different natural expensive woods, and the best 
skill in decorative art had been employed in orna- 
menting and giving color and hue to its elegant and 
spacious apartments. 

Its furnishing showed no originality, nor expressed 

448 


449 


She Rose Up. 

taste in any particular thing ; but one saw everywhere 
the eye glanced, the lavish expenditure of money, and 
the display of great luxury. The hangings and up- 
holstery of the drawing-rooms were in pale, canary 
satin, and rose brocade. Old Irish point lace curtains 
draped the bow and square windows, and the mantle- 
pieces of white marble were tastefully carved and in- 
laid with onyx; while rare and costly oriental rugs 
covered here and there the polished floors. The same 
extravagant display of satin, brocade, lace and rich 
stuffs was to be seen on the second floor, bed-rooms 
and sitting-rooms. The large reception hall, with its 
broad, winding stairway, of cedar and oak, was the 
most pleasing feature of the whole house, to the art- 
istic sense, and was a picture of harmony in itself. 

Society had played, piped, fiddled and danced away 
the first month of the new year, and now it hied itself 
to the Weston Villa, to see and be seen. The Weston 
Villa was a scene of brilliance, splendor and revelry 
by night ; along the grand Boulevard the flickering 
lamps of carriages kept coming and going, up and 
down in front of the house, which faced the park, 
with its wide avenues, stately forest trees, oaks and 
sycamores ; its natural rivulets and artificial lakes, 
stretching away in shadowy mystery, until cut by the 
low line of the horizon. It was the first reception 
and ball given by Miss Graham, the heiress and mis- 
tress of Weston Villa, since her occupancy. Indeed, 
the first given by her, since her entre to the beau 
monde. It was given now as a forerunner of her 
coming marriage to the Count Henri de Gascon of 


450 


In the Market Place. 


France, which was to take place in a few weeks. She 
stood in the folding doors of the reception hall and 
the large drawing-rooms, a vision clad in pale rose 
satin covered with soft, clinging lace, rare and costly. 
Some said the overdress had been purchased in Paris 
at the private sale of the wardrobe of a royal Duchess 
of the house of Bourbon; others said that the Em- 
press Eugenie had worn it at a grand fete given at 
the Tuileries, in honor of some Hindoo prince, and 
sold after the retirement of the lovely Empress, to 
a rich American lady ; she afterwards disposing of it 
to a New York mercantile house. Be that as it may, 
to-night it swathed the serpentine figure of Effie 
Graham, and enhanced her sensuous beauty ; making 
it more alluring to the masculine eye. Her bare neck 
and bosom pulsed under their weight of gems that, 
with every rise and fall, gleamed and scintillated with 
all the reflected iridescent hues of the rooms, and 
flashed them back again, in their blue, white flame. 
Diamonds clasped her wrists, and just above the 
elbow, where the long, soft glove ended, a serpent of 
glistening stones bound her arms. Her dark, chest- 
nut-brown hair was coiled high on top of her head, 
with its rings touching the opal-veined temples. In 
her hand she carried a fan, a work of art, in its com- 
bination of mother-of-pearl, jewels and point lace. 

By her side, or rather more to her back, stood the 
woman she called Aunt, the life long companion of 
her legitimate relative. 

In age she was nearing the borderland of the 
sixties ; below medium height, dark visaged, and 


She Rose Up. 451 

of thin angular form. A red ring circled the iris of 
her small piercing black eyes, giving them an appear 
ance of being habitually inflamed. Her features 
large, her complexion swarthy, the mouth vivacious, 
but the chin strong. Her iron-grey hair softened to 
some extent a face, not in any sense prepossessing; 
it might be termed plebeian, but not common-place, as 
it was a very uncommon face. It might be also 
termed homely, shrewd, worldly wise, worldly worn, 
and hard. It had seen many phases of life, particular- 
ly its shady phase ; never since a child, had her head 
sought its pillow, until far past midnight, and even 
now at her age, the habit of late hours was strong 
with her. 

She wore a robe of black velvet and satin, with 
rare point lace, and diamonds almost as big as filberts 
flashed and sparkled in her ears, and the rings worn 
over her white kid gloves, reached to the middle joint 
of her fingers. The rouge on her withered cheek, 
added greater brilliance to her little, sharp, black 
eyes. 

There was no particular love between Madge Noris 
and her ward, for a long while Mrs. Noris smarted 
under the way her life long friend distributed her 
money at her death. She felt sore and bitter at heart 
for months and months, and could not reconcile her- 
self to the small monthly allowance bequeathed her 
in the will. While she took no part in her friend’s 
enterprises, she helped her in every way with her 
schemes to reach the desired results. The dead 
woman was always generous with her during her life, 


In the Market Place. 


45 ^ 

and she led her to believe that if she went first she 
would share her fortune equally with her niece. 
However, Mrs. Noris made the best of what she 
could not help; she put her allowance as she drew 
it into the bank in her own name, and let her ward 
pay all the bills, but for her clothing. 

Effie owed much to the worldly-wise and shrewd 
Madge Noris in reaching her present place in society. 
When old Madge found that her friend’s stocks, 
bonds, and real estate had doubled and trebled In 
value, and that Miss Graham was a very wealthy girl, 
she said to herself : ‘'Why shouldn’t the child rise to 
a place in the world, above her present ; money covers 
a multitude of sins. Why shouldn’t the past bury the 
past, and the dirty methods by which this money was 
first made.” She knew the girl possessed no more 
than the average intelligence, but she had every re- 
quisite to make a success in the social world. She 
had an insatiable ambition in that direction ; she was 
keen, shrev/d, and as cold-blooded as a frog. With 
these qualities she had youth, great personal beauty, 
of a certain kind, and above ad money to back the 
whole business. So old Madge had the cunning, 
what we Americans call cuteness, but more often it is 
cunning, real genuine cunning. Yes, Madge had the 
cuteness to know that the society, which she and her 
life long companion, Effie’s aunt kept and lived in, 
what we in our land call the questionable sort, those 
who live on the out-skirts of respectability; and in 
France termed the demi-monde^ was but a step to the 


453 


She Rose Up. 

beau monde, their methods are the same, with this 
difference, the half-world, throws aside the cloak, the 
upper world wraps about its indiscretions and hides 
in its ample folds. So Madge Noris and her ward en- 
tered a compact of copartnership, not in words, but a 
mental understanding; Mrs. Noris was to take entire 
charge of her house, be her campanion, her chaperon, 
her aunt. 

Effie Graham stood in all her superb, sensuous 
beauty, with a back-ground of flowers, blooming 
plants, and rare exotics. The long vista of the 
roomSj with their gleaming lights, the shimmer and 
sheen of satin, of lace, rich colors, blending to 
harmonous hues ; the waft of perfumed fans, and the 
rhythm of dainty feet, keeping time to the sweet 
strains of the waltz. What a triumph is hers, as she 
stands there with the slow fire of exultation burning 
in her limpid eyes, while society bows, fawns, and 
flatters. This girl, the supposed niece of a disreputa- 
ble woman, yet more likely her daughter. The girl 
scarcely seventeen that Nelson Lawrie made a 
sketch of in a down-town garden the night before he 
left for Europe, whom he saw with an old roue old 
enough, to be her grandfather, bending over her, and 
pouring in her ears words of flattery and assimilated 
passion as old and hackneyed as himself. The quasi 
art student whom Arthur Lowell invited to his house, 
introduced to his home and wife four years before. 
The destroyer of Gartha Lowell’s peace, the woman 
^vho brought sorrow to her young life, who drove 


454 


In the Market Place. 


her from home and husband into the streets at night. 
You were but a girl, then, Effie Graham, you are still 
but a girl, yet so old in deceit, craft and intrigue. 

Does society ask by what right you stand there? 
V/hat your claims are to its respect and homage? 
You have neither birth, family, talent, wit, intellect, 
nor virtue. But society makes its own gods, it likes 
to be well fed, well housed, and amused ; besides you 
have the golden calf in the Weston Villa. Agreeing 
with old Madge Noris, society is so cute, it winks, 
gossips, scoffs, and shrugs its shoulders, and with a 
laugh at earnestness, cries, ''Dear me, I have, no time 
to be hunting up or looking into people’s pedigree. I 
make certain demands upon my votaries, they must 
have what I require, and one and the most essential 
thing, is the golden calf. Besides new people are de- 
cidedly interesting, and I like to be interested.” 

Let us make a mental search among the gay 
throng for some of our society friends. A little to the 
left of the folding-doors stands Count Henri de Gas- 
con. To-night he is quite the vogue, he is every inch 
a man of the world, in appearance so distingue, that 
our society which is so fluctuating in our large cities 
and changes almost with the seasons, think him a real 
French Count, with an estate in Brittany, and a large 
bank roll in the Bank of France. Our young bells 
pooh, poohed at the idea that he was born in 
America, which was the story afloat. He speaks 
English, they said, with such a decided French accent, 
besides he’s so divinely handsome, such elegant man- 
ners, and the courtesy of a prince. He is paying his 


455 


She Rose Up. 

devoirs to Mrs. Barton Hamstead, who is there in all 
her millinery, and as she always does, makes a decid- 
edly striking appearance. She dearly loves Counts, 
Lords, and Earls, titled people being her weakness. 
No woman is to be blamed for admiring an accom- 
plished gentleman, women are like children, they take 
to those who are kindly disposed to them, and the 
sure road to their favor is for a man to be courteous. 
Disraeli, the brilliant English statesman, was once 
asked how he came to be such a favorite with 
Queen Victoria, he answered he did not know, unless 
it was that he never contradicted. This same Dis- 
raeli was generous enough to own that he owed all 
his success in life to women. We do know that his 
wife was the power behind the throne. And thousands 
of other great men and thousands more lesser lights 
have reached their places in the world of letters, 
science, religion, art, and statesmanship by women 
who stood in the background aiding and abetting 
them and making it possible for them to arrive at 
the desired goal; taking no account of themselves. 
These, of course, are the exceptional women, their 
husbands were the exceptional men. But we fear it 
was not the man, or the gentleman, that Mrs. Barton 
Hamstead had in view, while she made herself so 
gracious to the Count Henri de Gascon. His title, 
we are sorry to say, played quite a part in the low 
intoning of her voice, and the smiles she bestowed 
upon him. 

Mr. Barton Hamstead looked very broad and very 
stout in evening dress, his face was not so much like 


In the Market Place. 


456 

the full moon, as it resembled the sun showing red 
through the murky haze of a gray sky. He didn't 
like receptions and balls, when a ball or reception 
was mentioned he puffed and blew a great deal and 
pulled at the corners of his mustache with his fat 
gloved hand, and kept it up all evening, after he had 
reluctantly dragged himself to the house where it was 
given. This worried Mrs. Barton exceedingly, she 
understood what all Barton's restlessness meant; it 
meant that he hated to be carried away from his ele- 
gant warm library, and the enjoyment of his evening 
paper, in comfortable loose round coat and slippers. 
Then after the paper was read, a game of poker or 
old fashioned cribbage, with a few friends who hap- 
pened to drop in — and they generally happened in — to 
have a talk over the rise and fall of stocks and bonds, 
or the latest political issue. The snug little supper 
that followed, where the best foreign wines, the finest 
champagne, whiskies and French eau de vie were 
drunk, and the evening wound up with the best 
Havana cigars. He detested standing round in eve- 
ning dress, bowing and scraping to women, let the 
young men do that. Of course, there were plenty 
of good things to eat, but a deucedly uncomfortable 
way of getting at them. You dear old Barton Ham- 
stead, you are not so free, if you are worth millions. 

Mrs. Calwald stands near a window to the right 
of Mrs. Barton Hamstead, she is all light green satin, 
like the green of sea waves, covered with Irish point 
lace. Her ample bosom, like hills of snow, rising 
above a very low cut corsage, were somewhat sub- 


457 


She Rose Up. 

clued by a covering of the lace ; but her arms were 
bare to the narrow strap, which crossed over her 
shoulders. A necklace of diamonds clasped her 
throat, and in her gloved hand she carried a fan of 
white ostrich feathers. Mrs. Calwald had a penchant 
for articles of dress of the large and floating kind. 

''What do you think of this turn out, Al?’’ She 
said, with a little sniff, and a smile playing about her 
lips, as if she was making a mental note of every- 
thing she saw. She seated herself beside her husband, 
who had taken advantage of a low divan which stood 
in a recess of one of the windows, glad to find a rest- 
ing place out of the way of the crowd. "I just guessed 
there would be a terrible jam, I suppose curiosity 
brought most of them, to see the house and its new 
things.’^ 

"And to show their good clothes, now don’t deny 
it, Ann. What woman having a new gown doesn’t 
want all her sisters to see it,” said Mr. Calwald, with 
a snap of his small, sharp eyes, and rumpling up his 
face with a smile at Ann, as he took in her ample per- 
son, in her flowing green satin and point lace, think- 
ing of the dollars it cost and the check for a hand- 
some sum, he would have to pay her modiste. 

"Of course, Mrs. Barton Hamstead wouldn’t let a 
swell affair like this pass her, she likes to see and be 
seen too well for that,” she went on, waving her white 
ostrich fan to and fro. "The Greysons — h-mm — 
they’re not here — h-mm — they’re poor, but pride 
themselves on blood and good family. Mrs. General 
Campden is absent, also — h-mm — had a cold, I sup- 


In the Market Place. 


458 

pose; how funny/’ Mrs. Calwald’s double chin folded 
and creased, as her lips parted in a smile. “Exclusive, 
my eyes, yes — uniph, still exclusiveness don’t count 
much in these days ; she’ll be brought around after 
awhile. If Miss Graham marries the Count, money 
and title will open the locks to the inner circle and 
sweep away all barriers to its choice places. But sup- 
posing the other woman appears on the scene the day 
of the wedding, as they do in novels. My, wouldn’t it 
be a dinner for the young men, who envy the Count’s 
prize, and a tea-party for all the mothers and old 
dowagers, and young women, who hate Miss Graham. 
It would be the choice dish for a whole year, a pate de 
foies gras, in richness, we would then get the details of 
the story and judge for ourselves. Ha, h-mm — funny, 
isn’t it?” and Mrs. Calwald’s face settled to its 
usual stolid expression. 

“Well, my dear, whether the Count is a real Count 
or not, I can’t say, but I hardly think he is a man, who 
would place himself in a position on the eve of marry- 
ing a young lady like Miss Graham, without being 
free to do so,” Mr. Calwald coughed, ran his fore- 
finger and thumb around the edge of his black satin 
vest, gave it a pat or two, and adjusted it smoothly to 
his figure. 

“Oh, like Barkis, the courts, are willin’ enough to 
grant divorces for the least provocation, but what 
has that to do with the wrath of a woman wronged ! 
Pooh — when there’s a divorce that settles it; but in 
this case report saith there was no ceremony, there- 
fore no divorce; hence no settlement.” 


459 


She Rose Up. 

^Well, well, my dear, you know more about these 
little matters than I, but let us hope for the sake of 
morals, society, and all concerned, that no harm will 
come to the young girl.” 

''You dear good old stupid Al, you have no eyes, 
or ears, for anything outside of your office and 
ledgers,” said Mrs. Calwald, brushing the edge of 
Almond’s nose, with the tip of one of the long ostrich 
feathers of her fan, which caused him to pucker up 
his lips into a little round knot that was neant for a 
smile. "Just look, Al, at Freddie Faboul,” she went 
on, glancing to the left of her, where Freddie Faboul 
in high glee, was cavorting about in the quadrille with 
Annie McClure, his partner. "Annie McClure is the 
brainiest girl in our set. If the surgeons could do a 
little trepanning there, and transpose some of Annie’s 
brain into Freddie’s cranium, he might make better 
use of his time than dawdling around the girls from 
morning until night, and studying up fancy costumes. 
Wonder where he ran across that outfit, how swell ! 
Light gray corduroy pants, satin vest, and black 
velveteen dress-coat, its broad lapels lined with gray 
satin, white flowing tie ; and delicate cream kids. His 
boutonniere a large creamy chrysanthemum. Ah, 
here comes young Herondon, what a relief, he is such 
a fine looking and manly fellow.” 

The music begins in the slow step of the minuet, 
from that to the quick time of the lancers. Effie 
Graham dances well. She looked like some beautiful 
Naiad, floating through the figures, as if her feet 
barely touched the floor. She gives the tips of her 


460 


In the Market Place. 


fingers to Freddie Faboiil, and as she passes him in 
the dance, she lifts her limpid eyes with their molten 
fire to his, the smile which barely parted the red lips, 
showing their rows of pearls, and the scent of the 
roses on her bosom, lingered long with him. He was 
just about her own age, a little weak and frivolous, it 
is true, but he had travelled considerably since he left 
college, and mixed much with young men of his own 
age, and older men, of his own place in life ; besides 
he had a good mother who taught him the value of 
keeping clean handed. Yet as he looked upon Effie 
with her dangerous beauty, he blushed to the roots 
of his hair, and pulled the corners of his light mus- 
tache. He saw not her cold pitiless heart, men sel- 
dom look farther than what pleases their senses, it is 
always the woman’s body they love, never mind char- 
acter and soul. 

Four hours later Effie Graham entered her bou- 
doir ; the same luxury, the same rich and costly hang- 
ings, as in the grand drawing-rooms were to be seen 
here. She stood before a mirror which reached from 
the floor to the ceiling. A proud smile played about 
the red pouting mouth, the fire of exultation that 
burned in her heart, sent its hot glow to her cheek, 
and shot flame from under the drooping eyelids that 
scorched the long dark lashes. 

Triumph crowned her brow, her every wish, every 
desire was hers, and now the one aim of her life, since 
the day she knew the contents of her aunt’s will and 
that she was rich in her own right had been attained. 
This night the world was at her feet, her world, the 


461 


She Rose Up. 

world she longed to conquer. She had taken no step, 
put forth no energy, not a finger had she moved, to 
reach her throne. The beau-monde, the world we 
call society, the ignis-fatuus that so many women pur- 
sue, but to elude them and weary, worn, they die upon 
the roadside, half way to the beloved and longed for 
goal. It had come to her unasked, unsought, throw- 
ing its treasures in her lap and falling at her feet, 
worshipped. This woman of low origin, no moral, no 
ability, no talent, without one generous principle; 
nothing but a certain kind of sensuous beauty ; a cold, 
calculating shrewdness ; and sense enough to under- 
stand the value of silence, to hide her ignorance. True 
she possessed the one essential, the golden key, which 
unlocks all earthly doors, and in her closet stood the 
world's god, the golden calf. She turned from the 
mirror, and petulantly threw her fan upon the floor, 
and her lace handkerchief after it, wearily (for even 
she wearied at times of adulation) dropped into a low 
satin couch, unfastened the mass of hothouse blush 
roses from her corsage, and began to pluck their 
leaves apart, and let them fall at her feet. There was 
the same wanton cruel expression on her face, as on 
that morning long ago when she sat in the dining- 
room of Gartha Lowell’s lovely cottage, an ex- 
pression which made Gartha shudder, as she came 
from her room, where she had found refuge from this 
girl’s and her husband’s cold sneers, and passed her 
on her way to the kitchen. To-night it was more 
exemplified in what we may term the satiety of lavish- 
ness, avarice, covetousness. Something like what 


In the Market Place. 


462 

the Lord meant when He said : '‘Woe unto those that 
are full, for they shall be made to hunger/’ 

The Count then entered, as he did she playfully 
threw a rose in his face, he caught it, held it up, and 
pressed it to his cheek, and bowed. Then he came 
toward her, knelt down on one knee at her feet, and 
raised her white jeweled hand to his lips. "Oh, my 
love, my love, my fair one, my beautiful queen, my 
wife,’' he took her in his arms, and crushed her to his 
breast, and kissed her red pouting mouth, "Oh, my 
darling, my love, you must be mine, why put off our 
marriage, it is cruel this waiting. Why not to-mor- 
row as well as three weeks or a month from now ? I 
can not live longer without you ; I fear every moment 
some cruel fate will part us. Let us go in the morning 
to the justice of some of the civil courts, or some 
obscure minister and be married privately, we then 
can have the public wedding, when most convenient.” 
He kissed her again and again, and with his arms 
folded about her, her head pillowed on his shoulder, 
he used all the eloquence, all the persuasive arts, he 
W2is master of in the way of love making (and they 
v^ere many), to have her promise to be his wife in the 
morning. Yes, he must have her; this prize must be 
his; before another sun would set he would move 
earth and heaven, if he could, to accomplish it. Then 
come what would, he was safe. 

"Bah, why should I fear she loves me. If the other 
Ihould turn up after the ceremony she could do her 
I'orst ; she has no legal claim upon me. But, but — ” 
great dread seized him, the cold chills crep/* vip 


She Rose Up. 463 

about his heart, and he trembled visibly. Yes, Count 
Henri de Gascon, has the woman you deserted in 
Paris no moral claim on you? You were not bound 
by any legal ties to Annette Lefarge, but by an oath 
sworn to her over the crib of her sleeping infant, 
that you would love and cherish her, until death 
parted you. And since that night, have you not been 
bound by a chain whose links were forged week by 
week, month by month, year by year, which no court 
can unfasten. You took the law in ycur own hands, 
you disregarded its mandates, to you it was love with- 
out law, now you must pay the penalty that the moral 
law exacts of all things illicit. 

Effie Graham always mistress of herself, her loves 
and passions, had played with men, as she did with 
her pet poodle, or pet cat ; many of her lovers hated 
the poodle and pet cat, and would have given their 
heads for one caress of her soft white hand. As she 
lay crushed in her lover's arms she was for once con- 
quered ; the blood flowed from her heart through her 
veins and went seething to her brain; for a moment 
she would have promised the man who was to be her 
husband anything he asked; she would have given 
him half her fortune. But the next moment she was 
Effie Graham ; cool, calculating, selfish, with desires 
insatiable. She tore herself from his embrace, rose 
up and stood with cheeks aflame, a light as cold as 
the gleam from her diamonds flashed from her eyes. 
‘‘I must see my attorney, the arrangements for our 
marriage have not yet been completed," she said, 
taking a step or two back from him. ‘‘I will send for 
him the first thing in the morning." 


In the Market Place. 


464 

He looked at her standing there in her rose hued 
splendor; laces, rare and costly, swathing the ser- 
pentine curves of her limbs; her eyes burning, her 
cheek crimsoned, a smile playing upon her red mouth, 
while her white bosom heaved under its weight of 
gems that scintillated like moonlight glistening on sea 
foam. She stood a very Cleopatra in the midst of 
luxury, rich oriental hangings, colors, and delicate 
perfumes. As he gazed upon her, she almost drove 
him to frenzy, for the face of the old black woman 
darkened the space between him and her. Was he 
going to let all this wealth and this beautiful young 
woman slip from his grasp? Never, and he almost 
laughed aloud, at the thought. He who had played 
for thousands with men, who bore the name of gentle- 
men — some wearing the grandest titles in Europe — 
and won. He, the petted boy of fortune, son of a 
millionaire, whose white hands never did an honest 
day’s work in all his useless life. The prodigal who 
spent and rioted away his inheritance and now lived 
on his wits. This woman and her money was the big- 
gest stake he had ever thrown for, was he, the suc- 
cessful gambler, going to lose now? No, never, never. 
He rose, took a step or two towards her ; she turned 
from him, “I will see you in the morning at ten 
o’clock; good night, dear,” she said, tipping the 
handle of a small silver bell. “You will find Johnson 
in the hall, waiting to attend upon you.” As the 
Count passed down the stairs, her maid and Aunt 
Madge Noris entered her boudoir 


CHAPTER VIIL 


SUCH are: my bre;thre:n, my sisters and my 

MOTHJ^R (UUKE, VIII CHAP.). 

The night that Gartha Rowland Lowell was driven 
from her husband and home, and the last we see of 
her, was standing on the hill, with eyes gazing down 
upon the city; she wandered about for hours, not 
knowing where she was going, until about the break 
of day she found herself at Tanglewood sitting on the 
steps of the Lawrie cottage. It was thus Mrs. Lawrie 
found her with Blucher, the big St. Bernard, Peter 
Lawrie’s companion for twelve years, lying at her 
feet. When Gartha opened the small wicker gate the 
younger dogs began to bark and make a great ado, 
but Blucher knew by one sniff who it was, Gartha, in 
a semi-unconscious way, put out her hand to him, he 
licked it, followed on after her, and when she seated 
herself on the porch steps, laid down at her feet. His 
dog instinct knew there was something wrong and 
he offered her the protection man refused her. Mrs. 
Lawrie, awakened by the dogs barking, and that pre- 
science which some have to a great degree, caused 
her to leave her bed, open the blinds of her window, 
and look out ; when she saw it was a woman, although 
she could not distinguish the features, or dress, as the 
30 465 


466 


In the Market Place. 


dawn had scarcely dispersed the shadows of night ; she 
knew it was Gartha. She slipped on a wrapper, went 
out and led her into the house, led her on up the stairs 
to her own room, the one she occupied before her 
marriage and got her into bed. For two days she re- 
mained in bed, and for a whole month she never left 
her room, Mrs. Lawrie sending up her meals. After 
she had been in the house about a week she had re- 
lated to Mrs. Lawrie the whole story of her unhappy 
married life and the‘final cause of her leaving her hus- 
band and her home, and that she would like to be quiet 
and see no one, but she, Mrs. Lawrie, that she could 
best fight the battle of her grief alone and with God’s 
help. At the end of six weeks she began to go down 
stairs to her meals, she would sit an hour or two with 
Mrs. Lawrie and Peter, also awhile with Carl in the 
studio. Carl showed her great sympathy, mixed with 
delicacy and tact ; taking it as the most natural thing 
in the world for her to be home among them. And 
had she been Mary, when a little girl, Peter Lawrie 
couldn’t have been kinder, gentler, and who could be 
more welcome to Tanglewood, '"than our own 
Gartha.” 

After six or seven months when Mrs. Lawrie and 
Peter thought that Gartha was going to make Tangle- 
wood her home, and she would be the comfort and 
stay of their declining years, for they loved her, and 
Nelson at that time was still abroad; the lease of 
Gartha’s own cottage, ''The Maples,” had expired. 
The gentleman who had lived in it for several years 
wished to renew the lease, it was such a lovely spot 


Such are my Brethren. 467 

and so finely situated, hilly, and studded with grand 
old sycamores, beeches, and the forest oak, besides a 
view of the river. But Gartha declined all offers, she 
had formed other plans for its use. The gentleman 
then bought one of the lots from Gartha; she had 
sold several of the seven acres left her, with the cot- 
tage and its grounds, and which had been divided 
into lots, as the ground about her place had so in- 
creased in value that she received goodly sums for 
what she had sold. With some of this money she 
made many repairs on her own house, both inside and 
outside. She added a wing of two rooms, a library 
and dining-room and two rooms above. She furnished 
the library and dining-room, after her own taste, 
plainly but artistically. The rooms above she took 
for her own use, she had saved many of her mother’s 
old fashioned but rare pieces of furniture, such as a 
^fiiie rose-wood bookcase, which stood in Nelson’s 
studio, and which little Topping just raved over the 
first time she beheld it, for it put all her tawdry new 
would-be-old things to shame. And there was the 
large old English oak sideboard, and chairs to 
match, stowed away in the attic of the Lawrie cot- 
tage, and other pieces that were too large for the 
small rooms of the modern cottage. Mrs. Lawrie 
and Peter used every persuasion to keep her with 
them, so did Carl. She comforted Mrs. Lawrie by 
telling her that she was not going far and that she 
would see her daily; that she had for a long while 
intended to adopt two children, a boy and a girl, that 
were left her. And that Anne, now a middle-aged 


468 


In the Market Place. 


woman, who had lived with her mother, when she 
was a small girl, was coming to take charge of her 
house. 

We will now take the reader to The Maples, Mrs. 
Lowell’s cottage, and into her sitting-room above the 
library in the wing. The room is large and square, its 
squareness broken by a large bay window, which 
faces the southeast, giving a glimpse through the 
forest trees of a bend in the river looking like a silver 
thread cutting the dark line of the opposite shore. 
Another pleasant feature about this large bow win- 
dow was that at morning it presented a vast sweep 
of the sky, lighted up by the early rising sun, and at 
evening they reflected the glory of the sunset. It was 
a lovely room, plainly furnished, but so cheerful, and 
about it a sort of atmosphere that warmed the heart 
and made it restful, and gave it a sense of that sweet 
peace, which is to be prized above all else in the 
world. The floor was covered with pretty matting, 
having a few bright rugs laid here and there. In the 
center stood a large round table filled with books, 
papers, magazines, children’s schoolbooks, and pic- 
ture books. On one side of the carved mantel-piece 
of cherry stood a high oak book-case with shelves 
filled with books, and draped with curtains of light 
flowered stuff hanging from poles. On the other side 
stood an organ, a guitar, and a small violin. Between 
the two large front windows draped in white muslin 
curtains was a massive walnut dressing-case, also 
belonging to her mother, and having a high broad 
mirror. In the opposite space between the bay win- 


469 


Such are my Brethren. 

dow and the door, which led into the hall, stood a 
black hair-cloth sofa, this made a sort of recess of the 
deep windows, which it partially screened, and was 
taken advantage of by turning it into a sort of play 
house. Here was a doll’s wicker cradle, boxes filled 
with paper dolls, and one containing a tiny silver 
thimble, a needle book, spools of thread, a small pin 
cushion, and all like paraphernalia. Besides there 
were carts, horses, steam-engines, blocks, whips, 
balls, Noah’s arks, and soldiers on drill. 

The most attractive feature of the room was the 
walls which were hung with etchings, and old en- 
gravings of a religious character : One of the Ma- 
donna and child, one of the Holy Family after 
Leonardo da Vinci, engraved by Raphael Morgan; 
Jesus, when a boy twelve years of age, disputing in 
the Temple with the learned doctors of the law ; The 
Saviour’s agony in the garden of Gethsemane, and a 
few small landscapes in oil, by Nelson Lawrie, rare 
bits of color. Leading off this room was a smaller 
room, the sanctum sanctorum of the mistress of the 
cottage, and what she claimed as her own little family 
bedroom. The floor was covered with matting as in 
the sitting-room, and in one corner stood a white 
iron bedstead draped in white muslin ; at its foot was 
a crib big enough for a child from two years up to 
seven or eight. A single white iron bedstead stood 
near a large window which looked west, and the only 
one in the room near this window was a table covered 
with white muslin, and upon it leaning against the 
wall was a plain dark flat wooden crucifix ; and at its 


470 


In the Market Place. 


foot laid a Bible. This window and table Gartha 
called her shrine. Here she came at the sunset hour, 
locked herself in and took her place by the window, 
and sat with folded hands ; it was her hour for 
thought, reflection, and prayer, and thanksgiving to 
Him, who had taken her life, and was making it so 
fruitful. It was the hour, when the shadows lengthen 
in the valley, and the sun droops low in the horizon 
and goldens the mist upon the hills. The souks hour 
of rest, the sweet waning hour of day, when the earth 
and the heavens are filled with color, perfume, and 
the silent glory of God. 

Let us enter the sitting-room ; the hour is eight of 
a cold winter’s evening, Gartha is seated in a rocking 
chair by the table, on which burns a student lamp, 
she is clad in a house robe of soft gray wool, bright- 
ened here and there by bows of crimson ribbon ; the 
creamy lace about the neck and wrists, giving it a 
tasteful simplicity. Her lovely hair is rolled in coils 
high on top of her head, the gray of her dress, giving 
added lustre to its rich brown hues. 

On the floor at her feet sat a girl of about seven 
years, a small old fashioned quaint little maid. She 
had a wealth of golden hair falling about her 
shoulders, and her serious Madonna-like face was a 
study for a painter. She was holding in her arms in 
a very loving manner her doll Sadie, whose wicker 
cradle, we have already observed in the corner ; while 
she prattled in an earnest way to Gartha about some- 
thing which had occurred to herself and Charley dur- 
ing her absence. Gartha who had returned home 


Such are my Brethren. 471 

from some business which took her to the city, but 
half an hour before was all attention, as she stroked 
with her right hand the dark head of a slim, straight 
boy of about five or six years old. He stood leaning 
at her side, his dark grey eyes smiling down upon 
Talitha whom he knew as a sister and playmate, ever 
since he knew anything ; at least since he was brought 
to the Institute a baby six months old. Talitha was 
then the baby of the house, she had been left to 
Gartha by her mother who died at the Institute. She 
was a young country girl, an orphan who had married 
a worthless young fellow against her aunt’s will; he 
brought her to the city, where after a long hunt for 
work and not finding any, he deserted his young wife 
and baby. The mother struggled on for months try- 
ing to support herself and infant. When Gartha 
found her she was living in an old shed in an alley, 
cold, hungry, and utterly destitute. Gartha was at 
that time but a girl herself, and the condition of this 
young mother touched her sympathies greatly; she 
had the mother and her child brought to the Home. 
She was then in a decline and a settled melancholy 
had taken hold of her mind. In six months she died, 
leaving Gartha sole guardian and mother to her little 
two-year-old girl, who bore the curious Greek word 
Talitha for a name, meaning damsel. The word our 
Lord used when he called to the daughter of Jarius 
to rise from the dead. 

Talitha was delighted with her new brother, the 
baby, and shared with him the affection and petting 
of her beautiful mother, whom God had sent her, and 


472 


In the Market Place. 


the family of the Institute, which consisted of the 
matron, a lovely, gentle, elderly, Christian woman. 
Two young teachers and three other women who 
acted in different capacities, besides twenty-five chil- 
dren from two years up to twelve, thirteen, and four- 
teen. 

And now we come to the baby boy, around whom 
he and his mother all our story hinges. What shall 
we say of Charley, whom Talitha loved and took the 
responsibility of both sister and mother in her own 
old fashioned quaint little maid way. Charley loved 
her dearly in return but in his own boyish fashion. 
He ruled her with true masculine despotism, yet with 
a trait peculiar to his sex, he was never happy when 
Tilta, as he called her, was not in sight. He would 
stop his play any moment, no matter how interested, 
when he missed her, to go in search of her. It made 
no difference how many of the other children were 
with him, the moment she was not to be seen, away 
with him his slender limbs flew to where she was, 
even if she had left him but a second before. 

He was in many ways a marked child with hair of 
a silken black, which fell in straight locks upon a 
broad blue veined forehead; the brows like a faint 
dark pencil stroke curving slightly from the line of 
the nose. The eyes were a dark bluish grey, veiled 
by long black lashes, a contrast to his pale swarthy 
skin. The features were delicate and beautifully cut, 
while over the whole face, lingered a shade of sad- 
ness, which was dispelled now and then, by a smile 
of rare sweetness, and while at play a ringing child- 


473 


Such are my Brethren. 

ish laugh. A few days after Gartha’s first meeting 
with Potipher Gilphin, little Charley sat playing on 
the floor of the sitting room with his blocks. Gartha 
called to him to come and have his blouse changed 
for a clean one ; he was so absorbed in building his 
castle that she had to call him again, this time hearing 
his name, spoken louder than usual and in a more 
decisive tone than his mamma Gartha was in the 
habit of speaking to him, he dropped the block he 
was lifting from the floor, turned quickly around and 
looked up into her face and smiled. Gartha was so 
struck with the resemblance of the boy to the man 
she had met a few nights before, as he sat relating 
to her his story, the expression of his face, which 
conveyed to her more than the words he spoke, the 
suffering he had lived through. In that one glance 
the one flash of the boy’s eyes, she read again, his 
mother’s sin. She let the waist she held in her hand 
drop at her feet on the floor. Was this likeness to 
Potipher Gilphin, her imagination, this resemblance 
to a man, who was in no way connected with the boy, 
the man who was separated from his mother by miles 
and miles of sea and land, and years of time before 
his birth, and who had never laid eyes upon him? 

No, she found it was not simply an impression 
conveyed from the brain to the sight, for as the days 
and weeks went by, and she had several interviews 
with Mr. Gilphin, she detected more and more the 
peculiar likeness of the boy to Mr. Gilphin. Sometimes 
in the slow droop of the long lashes, which gave a 
pensiveness to his features, the qui^k gestures and 


474 


In the Market Place. 


nervous grace of the slim agile body, the turning 
suddenly around when she spoke to him, and cross- 
ing his arms, as he stood before her. How came the 
boy so marked? Was it a memory of other days that 
stole upon his mother in her quiet moments ? 
Moments when she sat alone in her room, which she 
often did before his birth; moments when remorse 
seized her, as the face of the young husband and child 
she had so shamefully deserted rose up before her 
and persisted in intruding upon her. Then at other 
times a longing heart-sickness, a longing home-sick- 
ness, as her eyes gazed down the Boulevard over the- 
rows of Paris houses, to the Seine, across the ocean, 
to her native land, fair America ; and her native south- 
ern village where all her people lay buried. 

She had tasted of all the world had to give, she had 
drunk to the very dregs its cup of pleasure. Wealth, 
honor, admiration, her days and nights of dissipa- 
tion, all fled as the mother in her asserted itself. She 
was at the age when motherhood if the woman pos- 
sesses its instincts at all, feels most its responsibilities, 
its keenest joys, and its bitterest sorrows. With these 
came the knowledge daily, that the man, the father of 
her babe, for whom she had sinned, and thrown away 
all that is safe, and sacred, to womail, was slipping 
from her. 'She had no claim in a sense, a legal claim 
in law, to be called his wife, for the law often holds a 
thing legally right, when it is morally wrong, and vice 
versa. So for months before her baby came, her 
thoughts continually reverted to the husband she had 


475 


Such are my Brethren. 

wronged, and his face rose constantly before her, as 
the accusing angel of her shame, causing her the most 
poignant grief. Thus nature is its own avenger. 

Gartha, little by little, saw that the boy, was no 
ordinary child; he was never known to fret or cry, 
while with her ; indeed he was no crying baby, but the 
reverse. He had the reputation with his nurse the 
faithful Fanny, an elderly woman of the stout good 
natured sort, whom Gartha appointed as sole nurse 
to him, of being an old fashioned serious baby. ‘'Did 
you ever see anything like him, for being quiet,’’ she 
would say to herself, as he lay in his wicker carriage, 
under the big forest trees, while she sat by him, with 
her mending and darning. “You’d think he was com- 
posing a sermon, he’s so deep in thought, his eyes 
lookin’ far out to sea, as the sayin’ is.” 

Thus we find him a lovely boy of nearly six years, 
very fond of play, yet he will stop in the most exciting 
part of it when he hears Mrs. Lowell’s voice calling, 
or speaking to him. No matter where he would be 
and she sent Talitha or Fanny for him, his little feet 
would seemingly take wings and fly to her. While 
not always obedient to his nurse, he was exactingly 
so to his mamma Garta, as he lovingly called her. In 
the evening after tea, Gartha would take the boy and 
girl, to her sitting-room, seat herself by the table 
where a student lamp burned. Charley would draw 
up his little rocking chair, and seat himself by her 
knee, and Talitha would sit on a low hassock at her 
feet. This was the hour they loved, when they had 


476 


In the Market Place. 


their mamma Garta all to themselves. Gartha would 
read to them a chapter or two from some interesting 
child’s story, then a verse or two from the new Testa- 
ment, which she would explain, conveying in simple 
language their meaning, and generally making it plain 
to their child understanding. After this she would 
seat herself at the organ, Talitha would pick up her 
violin, and take her place at Gartha’s left, Gartha 
would then lead in the hymn. Talitha who had a 
clear sweet soprano voice, looked like one of Cor- 
reggio’s angels in the Nativity, with her flowing 
golden hair, her blue eyes raised to the ceiling, her 
face aglow with rapture, as she drew the bow, to and 
fro, across the string of her violin, and poured out 
her young voice in sweet flute-like tones in praises to 
God on high. Little Charley with dark, veiled, dream- 
ful eyes, watching every movement of his sister, and 
trying to sing with all the force of his young lungs. 
Gartha with head thrown back, her slim fingers touch- 
ing softly the keys, resembled one of Correggio’s 
Madonnas. And certainly the group made a picture, 
which any modern artist, might have rivalled Cor- 
reggio, in beauty and richness of color, if he painted it 
from nature. After the hymn was finished Gartha 
would see to putting Charley to bed, which she did 
ever since she brought him to her home. Talitha 
would also retire to her snowy bed, that stood at the 
foot of Gartha ’s. 

So love brought treasures to Gartha, as the Apostle 
Paul speaks of his conversion on the road to 


477 


Such are my Brethren. 

Damascus, ''I saw Jesus like one born out of due 
time/’ The love of these two children was born to her 
out of due time, and came as a joy to her heart, and 
a light in her darkest hour. She sought and she 
found, she knocked, and it was opened unto her. She 
heard the words of the Saviour when He hung upon 
the cross to his beloved apostle John, recommending 
His mother to his care. ''Son, behold thy mother, 
and mother behold thy son.” They had been re- 
peated over again in her own case, son, daughter, 
behold thy mother ; mother behold thy children. And 
likely they are repeated in many lives. And again 
when Jesus was teaching the multitude, some one 
came to him and said, "Behold thy mother and thy 
brethren, awaiteth outside for thee.” And He an- 
swered them, saying: "Who is my mother or my 
brethren?” And He looked around and about on 
them, which sat about Him, and said, "Behold my 
mother and my brethren, for whosoever shall do the 
will of God, the same is my brother, and my sister, 
and my mother.” Mark, chap, iii, verses 34-35. 

So Gartha’s life was full, every moment, every hour 
of the day was occupied. Her talents, and energy 
bore a hundred fold and returned again to Him who 
gave them. And that sensuousness which is a part 
of every physically healthy young man or woman, 
and which is expressed to a certain degree, in all 
poetry, music and art, had been gradually lessening 
since the night she left her home and husband. Since 
then she had grown broader, her thoughts far reach- 


478 In the Market Place. 

ing until intellect and spirit reigned, and the spirit 
ruled intellect, and she was free as the birds that soar 
up, up, in the blue expanse, and sing as they soar, a 
joyous song. ''Free as the winds, which cometh and 
goeth, and no man knoweth where they Hsteth.’’ So 
was the spirit in her. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THIS WAS the man SHE HAD PROPHESIED OE. 

Gartha had just seated herself by the table to 
read for an hour or two, which was her habit before 
retiring, when Fanny knocked at the sitting-room 
door, and said, that Dr. Alvin was downstairs in the 
library, and wished to see her. After their greeting, 
'T was in hopes,’’ said Cyrus, ‘‘to arrive in time to 
have a few words with the children before their bed 
time.” 

“It’s but a few minutes since they retired, but both 
are fast asleep,” she answered, as she beckoned him to 
be seated, and drawing an arm chair up to the centre 
table, where a bronze lamp of rare workmanship 
burned. As she seated herself, she saw by the light of 
the lamp which fell upon his face, that he was looking 
pale, and the marks of fatigue were plainly dented 
under his eyes. He had spent the morning, until 
about one o’clock in his study, then ate a light lunch, 
and had been since then visiting the sick and poor, 
praying at the bed-side of the dying ; speaking for half 
an hour to a society of benevolent ladies, that met at 
four o’clock in the parlors of the church, and winding 
up with one of his eloquent prayers. And now he 
had come from the city before going home to dinner 
to see Mrs. Eowell on an errand of charity. 


479 


4^0 In the Market Place. 

^‘Yes/^ he replied, thoughtfully, “it is the glorious 
privilege of childhood to have no care nor responsi- 
bility. I think the Master meant us to enjoy some- 
thing of this privilege when He said, 'Unless ye re- 
ceive the kingdom of heaven as little children, ye in 
nowise will enter therein.' If we had the simplicity, 
and faith, of children, we would throw all our cares 
and responsibilities upon Him. And He would set 
up His kingdom in our hearts, and we would enjoy 
part of our spiritual heaven here. I do not mean by 
that, that we should cease to work, or shirk our duties 
but put our hand to the plow and never look back. 
To work in His vineyard, which means all the world's 
work, is part of the heaven. He came to establish on 
earth. Jesus Himself, with all His Godly power, 
was simple and child-like, so was Paul with all his 
learning and genius, so were all the apostles, and we 
observe it in every truly great man." He raised his 
small, thin, nervous hand and brushed the hair off 
his brow. 

Gartha's heart gave a great bound, as she turned 
her glance upon him. The small poetical head, was 
slightly bent, presenting from where she was seated 
the profile, which suggested in all the lines and curves 
of his clear cut features, strength and character. The 
drooping mustache, concealing a mouth, a woman 
might have kissed as she would that of a baby's, so 
free was it from all sensuality, carnality, and which 
gave grace to the chin. The bright grey eyes, their 
flash quick as an eagle's, and burning with the fire 


The Man She Had Prophesied of- 481 

of the enthusiast. Ah, she thought how spirit gropes 
in the dark cavern of matter, and the senses ; how it 
fights for ascendency, and cries, ‘'I am life, the life 
that never dies, the life eternal.'’ Then after blunders 
and mistakes, sorrow, and the drinking of the bitter 
cup, the heart and mind is made to understand. ''Yes, 
yes," she said, to herself, "I knew sometime in the 
future, somewhere in the beyond, intellect would meet 
intellect, and spirit would speak to spirit." 

She loved Nelson Lawrie, as a sister a dear brother, 
at an age when music, poetry, art, and all that was 
ideal, was her dream. She loved her husband, oh, 
how well — how fondly, none could ever know, but her 
own heart and God. Thus man flings aside the rare 
and precious love of a chaste woman, and presses to 
his breast the tainted and besmirched. But the love 
Cyrus Alvin inspired her with, was different from all 
the others. His intellect, spirtuality, his tenderness, 
his religious fervor, their similarity of tastes and pur- 
poses, blended and harmonized until their love could 
be likened to nothing but the love of the angels. Not 
long after they first met she told him the story of her 
unhappy marriage. He had divined before he heard 
her history, that she had been down in the depths, 
had waded through the muddy waters ; had spent her 
night in Gethsemane, but had come out bravely. God 
called her, and she answered to the call, and was 
chosen. They met often in their work, and had had 
many talks together ; he helped and encouraged her, 
and she drank in strength and power from his teach- 
33 


482 


In the Market Place. 


ing. He opened up new vistas of light, and led her 
to heights, which gave her glimpses to’ new and subtle 
meaning of Christ’s teachings. 

‘'Yes, yes, it is a great boon, a great gift to possess 
simple child-like faith,” she answered, reflectively. 

“If men and women, would but seek for spiritual 
knowledge, would but listen to those who would 
teach them ; there would be no more fretting, worry- 
ing, fault-finding, carping and bitterness. Oh, no, the 
wrinkles would smooth out, and the bitterness and 
sordidness, disappear, the character would become 
lovable, the face serene and happy and shine with a 
beauty good to look upon. Then we would have some 
of God’s heaven here, God’s eternity upon earth.” 

“Yes, but these blessings come to but few, here and 
there to the individual.” she replied. 

“It is comparatively few who seek them ; the great 
majority of mankind seem always to have downward 
tendencies. I do not mean our civilization, which 
must grow upward and on, wherever Christianity 
in its true sense is taught and preached. But man in 
an unregenerate state is downward.” 

“Unfortunately the human race has been taught 
wrong, Christ’s teachings have not been given to it, 
in its broad and simple purity. In regard to the 
senses and animal passions, the teachings of men have 
heretofore tended to gratify them, rather than subdue 
them. The Mission of our Lord was to annihilate 
them, and give us life ; it is the passions that destroy. 
But here I have forgotten hospitality, knowing that 
you have been out since noon, and have come all the 


The Man She Had Prophesied of. 483 

way here without dinner, and the weather so cold,'^ 
she said, rising and leaving him. She passed through 
the lovely cozy dining-room to the kitchen where 
she found Anne. His eyes followed her with admira- 
tion and a holy, tender love, such as the Saviour 
might have given Mary of Bethany, the sister of 
Martha and Lazarus. 

‘'I would like you, Anne, to prepare a nice lunch 
for Dr. Alvin, she said. Opening the door of a 
large closet, she took down a small gas stove, and 
the loveliest little copper tea-kettle, that would hold 
water enough for about three cups of tea. Then 
from the same shelf, the dearest cunningest tea-pot, 
of earthenware, filled the tea-kettle with water, and 
carried the whole thing into the dining-room and 
set it on a side table kept for that purpose, attached 
her rubber to one of the gas brackets, lit her gas, and 
set her tea-kettle on to boil. Then Anne brought in 
a waiter filled with good things, laid the cloth, and 
the daintiest of china dishes, and went into the library 
to invite Cyrus out to have a cup of tea. And by 
the time Cyrus reached the dining-room, Gartha had 
the tea ready, and such a cup of tea, was never Cyrus 
Alvin’s privilege to drink before. Gartha seated her- 
self at the table, poured herself a cup of tea to keep 
company with Cyrus who ate heartily, and enjoyed 
every morsel of the lunch set before him. For the 
Rev. Cyrus, had a good appetite, and a relish for 
clean, plain, delicately cooked food. He was a very 
healthy minded, human man. 

“ What I have come to see you about, and wish you 


484 


In the Market Place. 


to help me in,” he said, as he sipped his tea, ‘'and it 
seems strange that I have never thought to acquaint 
you of it before, as the story is one of those that I 
know will most deeply interest you. About two years 
and a half before on just such a cold night as this, I 
was preaching at the Mission ; after the services was 
over, and most of the people had left for home, there 
came to me a woman, she was weeping, and greatly 
agitated. As she became more composed I got a 
glimpse of her face, behind the handkerchief she held 
to her eyes, to hide her tears, that fell like rain down 
her cheeks. I was struck and amazed at the traces oi 
unusual and rare beauty, which must have been hers, 
before ill health, want, privation and suffering came 
to mar it. I had never seen a face like hers, a whole 
life's tragedy was written in it, and when she removed 
her handkerchief for a moment, and looked up and 
her eyes met mine, I felt as if they had pulled the 
heart out of my breast ; for they seemed to plead, and 
beg so hard for pity, rest and peace. I could see 
Mary Magdalene in all her wrecked, but superb, and 
queenly beauty, standing before our Lord Jesus, 
begging and pleading for pardon. She was tall and 
erect, and for all her apparel bore the marks of wear, 
most distingue in appearance. In all the years of my 
ministry I have never known such complete con- 
version. She told me afterwards that for months she 
had contemplated murder, that she had that very day, 
walked the streets of the city, from early morning, in 
search of her prey. I comforted her as best I could, 


The Man She Had Prophesied of. 485 

and walked home with her to her little room in the 
top story of a small tenement house in an alley, one 
of the poorest and most crowded neighborhoods of 
the city. She had been living there nearly eight or 
nine months, with an old colored servant, a former 
slave of her mother’s, and her own nurse from infancy, 
the old woman supported herself and her mistress by 
washing and whatever work she could get to do by 
the day.” 

At the mention of the old negro woman, Gartha 
who sat listening with deep interest to the minister’s 
narrative, turned deathly pale, as the thought quick 
as a flash, went back to the night, the colored nurse 
brought Charley, a baby six months old, to the In- 
stitute, and after five years, returned again for him. 
Cut she said nothing and the Rev. Cyrus continued : 

had a long talk with her that night, she told me 
most of her history. She came from an old family 
of planters, and some of the best blood of the south 
ran in her veins. Her great sin was that she left a 
kind young husband and child, and fled to Europe 
with the son of a wealthy man, a merchant prince, 
and lived for years abroad with him as his wife. They 
lived in great luxury, and she must have reigned as 
queen in the fast set in which she moved. When he 
had spent the fortune his father gave him, he deserted 
her, leaving her without a penny. Little by little, she 
disposed of all her jewels and rich apparel to keep 
up her elegant house, while waiting for him to return. 
When she found lie did not come, she with her old 


486 


In the Market Place. 


servant followed him to this country, and the city 
she had left years before. I give you just the outlines 
of her story. 

‘'When I saw their extreme poverty I tried to think 
how I could best serve her, and get her away from 
her miserable surroundings, to a more quiet, com- 
fortable, and safe place for she was then in the first 
stages of consumption. All at once I thought of a 
Mrs. Connor, a good worthy woman, a staunch Chris- 
tion, of old Scotch ancestry. She is a member of 
my church, but attends the Mission ; she and her only 
child, a son, live in a snug little cottage not far from 
the Mission- She is a true widow of the gospel, very 
charitable and always ready with her mite. I called 
upon her and told her about my convert, who was a 
very delicate woman, and how I would like to find a 
room for her, and her old servant who was her only 
support. Her cottage is not more than three or four 
rooms, but she had a small wing built on, about three 
or four years before; she happened to have no par- 
ticular use for this room, and said, any one I would 
recommend, was welcome to it. It was so arranged 
that they could keep house, and be entirely to them- 
selves. What I wanted was to get my convert, where 
she would have quiet, and at the same time be pro- 
tected. When she and the black woman took posses- 
sion of Mrs. Connor’s wing, both maid and mistress, 
were delighted with their change of fortune, and the 
lady seemed to pick up amazingly, and take an in- 
terest in everything about her. She even busied her- 
self in sewing for the children of the neighbors, and 


The Man She Had Prophesied of. 487 

added a little to defray the household expenses in 
that way. For nearly a year, the disease did not seem 
to make much inroad, but she has failed rapidly in the 
last six months. I paid her a short visit this after- 
noon, and found her very much worse, she cannot last 
more than a few weeks or a month. I thought of you 
and wondered why I had not spoken of her to you 
before. While she is quite comfortable at Mrs. Con- 
nor’s, still I think it would be great happiness to her 
to see you, it would make her feel that she was not 
dying alone, and that some of her own kind took an 
interest in her. You cannot help but like her, and 
feel a deep sympathy for her. Mrs. Leighton has 
been a woman of great beauty, and brilliance of 
mind.” 

‘‘Mrs. Leighton cried Gartha, her cheeks blanch- 
ing white, as she rose up, ''Oh, some way I — , I — , felt 
all the while that your convert was she. When you 
first mentioned the elderly black woman, I knew then 
that we had found little Charley's mother. Oh, I 
knew that God would bring things about in his own 
way.” And Gartha covered her face v ith h3r hands 
and wept. 

"My dear Mrs. Lowell,” said Cyrus Alvin, rising 
and placing his tea-cup in its saucer. 

"You recollect,” said Gartha, recovering her com- 
posure, I have told you little of Charley’s history. 
That I was president of the children’s home, and was 
present when an elderly negress brought him a baby 
six months old to the Home. Last fall the same 
woman came for him, after more than five years. I 


488 


In the Market Place. 


could learn nothing from her concerning herself, or 
the boy’s parents, so of course I refused to give her 
the child. She begged hard for him, and pledged 
herself, to return the boy in five hours, if I would 
but let her take him ; but I would not unless she con- 
sented to have my gardener go with her. She ob- 
jected to this and went away and has not been seen or 
heard of since. I then made inquiries about the boy, 
and the inquiries led to locating a certain gentleman 
of this city. I paid him a visit, — and learned from 
him the story you have told me to-night, with the ex- 
ception that we knew nothing of Mrs. Leighton’s 
whereabouts. Oh, yes dear Dr. Alvin, you have 
found her, and I in tracing Charley’s parents, found 
the husband she deserted years ago. I will go and 
see her the first thing in the morning. Oh, I can 
hardly wait until the day breaks ; oh, dear Mr. Alvin, 
to you it has been given to bring Annette Lefarge 
back to God.” 

'Xet us pray,” said Cyrus. They both knelt in 
prayer. He offered one of those soul touching pray- 
ers he was noted for, and which never failed but to 
touch the most hardened sinner. This prayer, though 
short, was full of sympathy and pathos, pleading for 
the happy death of the sick woman, and giving thanks, 
that she like the strayed shefep had been found, and 
brought back to the fold. And like the prodigal had 
returned, and they would kill for her the fatted calf. 
When he finished they rose from their knees. 

‘'I shall take the seven o’clock train to the city, in 
the morning, as the electric car will take so much 


The Man She Had Prophesied of. 489 

longer ; I will go straight to Mrs. Connor. If she is 
the Mrs. Leighton we want, Charley’s mother, I shall 
have her brought to my home here; the boy need 
never know she is his mother, neither any one else 
of my household. Anne my housekeeper or Fanny, 
the boy’s nurse, never questions my actions in any 
matter of this kind.” 

This decision of Gartha’s gladdened the heart of 
the Rev. Cyrus, yet it was no surprise to him, coming 
from Gartha. He had known her to do the most 
noble and heroic acts, and was not astonished when 
she proposed bringing Mrs. Leighton to her home, 
to have her under her own care. As he stood in the 
doorway taking leave of her, she held out both her 
hands to him; he took them reverently in his, bent 
over them a moment, then left her. Thus he came, 
thus they parted; this man who exercised such an 
influence upon her whole after life. 


CHAPTER X. 


he: brushed something eike a tear from his eyes. 

On the same evening, which Cyrus Alvin, paid his 
visit to Mrs. Lowell’s home the Maples, for the pur- 
pose of consulting with her how to make the dying 
Mrs. Leighton’s last days on earth comfortable and 
happy, Potipher Gilphin sat alone in his library at 
Snow-ball hill in Elm-lane. The bright coal fire in the 
grate, that gave the room such warmth, color and 
cheerfulness, on the fall evening we were first intro- 
duced to it, was missing to-night. It being deep 
winter, and the house having all the conveniences 
and luxuries, which modern times afford, and money 
can buy was heated by steam. 

After dinner Elsie generally sat with her father, an 
hour or more in the library, chatting to him of the 
incidents and happenings of the day. She would re- 
late things in a bright, piquant fashion, full of quaint, 
original sayings all her own ; and which always 
charmed her hearers. She had a brilliancy of speech 
that developed more and more as she grew older, 
and which often brought to her father memories of 
one who for years he had put out of his life. ^'Yes, 
unfortunately,” he would say to himself, on these 
evenings, ‘‘she has inherited her mother’s beauty and 
mental traits ; had she but inherited her height, with 


490 


Something Like a Tear. 491 

my traits of character, it would have made me hap- 
pier/' Yet he would put the thought aside, as he 
looked lovingly and tenderly upon her, and repay her 
every once and awhile by a quiet laugh, that was a 
sort of a noiseless chuckle; and he would think to 
himself, as he turned his* glance from her and sighed. 
Well, she has been carefully reared by a good woman ; 
she has been educated in the best schools of our land ; 
she has had every advantage that money can pro- 
cure; besides she has a certain mental depth and 
strength her mother did not possess. Of course her 
character is not yet formed. Dear Potipher, as if 
character was ever formed this side of the grave. 
Years are the test of character. 

He had sent Frank Conners that afternoon, with a 
fine team of horses and sleigh, to take her and 
Martha Hays driving; he wished them to enjoy the 
snow while it lasted. Some of the young clerks at the 
wholesale house were greatly exercised over the idea 
of Mr. Gilphin sending that plebeian, Frank Conners, 
who a few years before was nothing but an office boy, 
to Snow-ball hill with a stylish turn-out, to take his 
daughter sleigh driving. One young man holding 
quite an important position in the house of Gilphin & 
Co., of good family, and an acquaintance of young 
Gresham's on the Hill, remarked to young Gresham 
when they met, that he supposed the reason that 
Gilphin sent that Conners fellow to drive his daughter 
the other day was that he knew there would be no 
danger of love making; for of course that Conners 
fellow wouldn't presume. 


49^ In the Market Place. 

My dear young man, Potipher Gilphin was a gen- 
eral in his way ; a general in the business world ; a 
quiet, keen, astute, observing man. From childhood 
up the world had been his school ; in his dealings with 
men he let nothing escape him that he did not jot 
down in his mental note-book. Since starting in busi- 
ness for himself, he had handled men of all ages, and 
nearly all conditions, so far as the work-a-day and 
business life was concerned. He found that few men, 
but what have some besetting sin ; that few men have 
moral stability, and integrity of purpose, and that 
few possess the sustaining power to succeed. Oh, 
yes, they want to succeed, but they don’t want trouble, 
or to work and to wait. Like in religion, most people 
want the crown, but they don’t want to shoulder the 
cross. Frank Conners was one of those babies that 
are born now and then into the world, and are the 
uncommon result of what we call whole man. Ten- 
nyson says, ‘‘A nation’s king may be born in a cot- 
tage.” I do not mean great geniuses in sciences, 
literature, art or statesmanship. A man may be any 
one of these, and be far from being a whole man. 
Gladstone was in every sense a whole man. In his 
long career of statesmanship he proved equal to every 
emergency ; besides the purity of his private charac- 
ter, and great moral worth, and Christian worth. No 
man or party accused him, he was the tool of no gang. 
Washington was a whole man, also Lincoln, and Gen- 
eral Lee. To be a whole wholesome man, perfectly 
free, no other man owning him, is a great thing, a 
godlike thing. 


493 


Something Like a Tear. 

Frank Conners from a child up had the even bal- 
ance which is the sure test of strong manhood. 
From the day he entered the wholesale house of Gil- 
phin & Co., an office boy, Mr. Gilphin kept close 
watch upon him. Whatever he was told to do he did 
it quickly and willingly ; the humblest task he was put 
to do, he did well, and it was the better for his hands 
having touched it. When asked about things in the 
office, or concerning the errands which he was often 
sent on, he answered intelligently and truthfully. His 
manner towards those older and in authority was al- 
ways respectful, but never servile. To Mr. Gilphin 
he was ever attentive and quick to serve him. The 
boy did this more from real affection, and the feeling 
that he needed his help, than from any selfish motive. 
None of the ways in which*he made himself useful to 
Mr. Gilphin was lost on that gentleman. He would 
help him on with his overcoat, and if it were winter or 
bad weather, some way Mr. Gilphin would find his 
rubbers or overshoes laid right where he could see 
them ; and those umbrellas, which everybody claims, 
and no one ever seems in possession of, Mr. Gilphin’s 
was carefully looked after, and slipped into his hand as 
he got ready to leave the office to go to lunch, or other 
affairs which took him out during the day. As an 
eminent woman once remarked to her illustrious hus- 
band, when he presented her with a first copy of his 
famous book, ‘The French Revolution,” that it took 
genius to appreciate genius. The boy was always 
surprising Gilphin by some bright remark, or 


494 


In the Market Place. 


thoughtful act, and it did not go unapproved by him. 

So little by little the boy was promoted, and what- 
ever Mr. Gilphin gave Frank to do he found the 
young man brought capacity to do it well. When he 
sent him on this afternoon to take his daughter and 
Martha Hays out sleighing, there was but one 
thought in his mind, that they would be in the best 
of company, besides he handled horses splendidly. 

Elsie would have made an artist famous could he 
have iiketched her as she reclined in an easy chair, by 
the library table, her father’s vis-a-vis. Her serge 
dress of dark red fitted her petite fairy-like figure to 
perfection. Over it she wore a cut-away sleeveless 
jacket of black velvet, embroidered in gold braid. 
Her luxuriant brown hair was coiled high on top of 
her head and fastened with a gold dagger. At her 
feet, stretched full length on a rug, was Beppo, very 
tired after his sleigh-ride. He occupied a seat be- 
side Frank and was all excitement, as the sleigh-bells 
merrily jingled, and glided over the snow. Beppo 
seemed to approve greatly of Frank’s driving. He 
would sit upon his haunches, take a survey of the 
horses, then look up in Frank’s face, drop his under 
jaw, show his teeth, as much as to say, “Isn’t this 
jolly?” Then he would curl himself down at Frank’s 
feet, but with his big brown eyes always on the alert. 

“Papa,” said Elsie, stopping abruptly in her talk, 
and leaning back in her chair, “how came Frank Con- 
ners to understand managing horses so well? You 
should have seen him drive those horses to-day ; they 
were a very spirited, restive team, but he handled 


Something Like a Tear. 495 

them superbly. They seemed to know they had a 
master behind them.’’ 

Her father looked at her a moment askance. For 
the first time certain thoughts chased each other 
through his mind. He had all along been thinking 
her simply a child, but her words had awakened him 
to the reality, she had grown to be a woman. Of 
course he had made some preparations for her home- 
coming from school, he wanted her to have -things as 
other girls had, whose fathers were possessed of the 
means to gratify them. But he had forgotten all 
about her being of an age, when she wanted the com- 
panionship of young people of both sexes, and she 
must not be debarred from their society. As he 
looked upon her bright, piquant beauty, it had never 
come to him so forcibly that she was now at a time of 
life that she would be apt to have her romance ; when 
young maids seek for a mate. The thought startled 
him. Well, she would not be left to herself to choose 
one. She had no mother, the secret of her mother’s 
shame had been carefully kept from her; she had 
been led to believe that her mother died in her 
infancy. She had a photograph of her ; it was taken 
when about her own age, which she secretly loved and 
cherished, as children do, whose baby eyes have gazed 
into the parent’s face, but memory fails to keep the 
imprint. 

‘Trank Conners, horses,” he murmured after a 
long pause, and shaking his head, as the tall manly 
form, and intelligent face of Frank rose before him, 
“Frank Conners has been about horses ever since he 


496 


In the Market Place. 


was a small boy. You remember he used to drive 
Tom a great deal before I sold him. Tom was a fine 
horse, and now he often drives the new wagon team. 
I never saw Frank’s like about managing things. I 
have men in my employ for years, and twice his age, 
that in a rush of business, get all tangled up, but 
Frank — well, he’s a very promising young man. 
You recollect he took you out to drive in the spring- 
wagon, when quite a lad. He told me something 
about being detained one day, that you insisted upon 
him taking you for a drive in the country.” 

^‘Oh, what a delightful ride it was,” she gave a ring- 
ing laugh. ‘T have never enjoyed anything since as I 
did that drive. We had fine sport with Beppo, if he 
heard the faintest echo in the woods, of a shot, his ears 
were up, and he would give a leap from the wagon, 
and away with him. He would not be gone but a few 
moments when he would overtake us, all out of 
breath, his tongue hanging half out of his mouth, and 
bound into the wagon, and drop down at my feet.” 
She bent over and patted the dog’s head, who re- 
sponded by licking her small white hand. ‘‘Mama 
Marta is going to arrange for me a small evening 
party. What do you think papa about sending an 
invitation to Frank Conners, or would you rather 
have it come verbally from yourself?” She rose up 
and stood beside the table. 

“My daughter, I have no objection to your sending 
an invitation to Frank Conners; he is a fine, manly 
young fellow, and in every sense worthy of the hospi- 


Something Like a Tear. 497 

tality of my house. Still, I would be careful, he is 
yet but a lad, a poor boy, do not lead him to expect 
anything, which in your position, and as my daughter, 
and above all in your heart, you could not carry out 
or fulfill.’’ 

‘'Dear papa, I think the young men of this genera- 
tion are wise for their years. I can see and feel that 
Frank Conners, poor boy though he is, was born to 
command ; why he looked like a young king to-day. 
He ought, with some help, make a career for him- 
self.” 

“I am pleased to hear that Martha and yourself 
have thought of giving this entertainment,” said Mr. 
Gilphin, pretending not to notice his daughter’s last 
remark. “There is Mrs. Gresham, she is quite promi- 
nent in social circles, supposing Martha and yourself 
consult with her, she will be a great help to you. I 
want you to enjoy all the advantages possible, and 
gather about you people of the best morals, taste, 
refinement and culture. I wish you to see something 
of the world before you begin to think of a husband. 
You are very young yet, and have plenty of time for 
that.” 

“You are a dear, good, wise father, and I thank you 
for the suggestion of taking Mrs. Gresham into our 
confidence. She is Just the woman to consult, for this 
party is virtually my coming out, and we must make 
it as pleasant an affair as possible. Mama Marta 
knowing you cared so little for society, thought to 
have it just a small gathering of young people, but 
33 


In the Market Place. 


498 

now I shall make it my debut. Good night, dear 
papa, 'V and with that she left the room and went up- 
stairs followed by Beppo. 

Potipher Gilphin, unlike most men, who rise from 
the ranks, and make for themselves a prominent place 
in the business marts, had none of the vulgar ambi- 
tion for social position which is the goal of so many 
men and women of the nouveau riche. The idea of 
giving his daughter to a young man of dissolute 
habits, because he could boast of the blue blood of 
his ancestors, and whose family would condescend- 
ingly tolerate the daughter of a rich parvenue, simply 
for her money; never entered his head. Oh, Mr. 
Gilphin did not bother himself about what we call 
society. The company of men and women of char- 
acter, refinement and culture banded together for the 
purpose of high and noble aims, seeking to better 
their fellow beings, and leaving humanity the richer, 
in what tends to elevate, is another thing. But to call 
a few idle people, that do nothing but eat, drink and 
sleep, that merely live for the gratification of the 
senses, while the rest of humanity toil and do the 
world’s work, to term this handful society was pre- 
posterous to him. 

After Elsie left the library, Mr. Gilphin rose from 
his seat and began pacing up and down the floor. 
Seldom since Elsie had grown to womanhood, that 
when in her company she did not by some look, word 
or gesture remind him of her mother In the early 
years, when the battle raged within him, for mastery 
ove-r the love of his youth, his boy’s dream, his boy’s 


499 


Something Like a Tear. 

ideal, to put her out of his life, never, never, more to 
think of her ; never, never, more to look upon her face. 
Yet, now and then, an expression in the child’s eyes 
brought her image before him, and it would persist in 
remaining with him for hours, and the battle would 
have to be fought over again. And now, after years, 
when he thought all interest in her, all memory of her, 
had been eliminated, he had been for four months 
hunting and trying to trace Charles Leighton. He 
had engaged two of the best detectives in the state 
and put them on the man’s track. They had at last 
located the Count Henri de Gascon, which is none 
other than Charles Leighton, that very day, at a little 
hotel in the suburbs. He had disguised himself and 
accompanied one of the detectives in a carriage, leav- 
ing the carriage on the southwest side of the hotel. 
They had timed themselves almost to the minute, for 
as they came to the corner of the lane, which ran 
between the open lot and the hotel, the detective 
whispered, ‘The Count, quick, look.” At that 
moment the Count came out the door of the ladies’ 
entrance. Potipher Gilphin, answered the detective 
at his side, without a bend of his head, a twitch of a 
muscle, or a shade of emotion upon his face, “Yes, it 
is Charles Leighton.” And he and the man at his 
side walked past the Count Henri de Gascon. 

They turned the corner and passed in front of the 
hotel, the Count going west. When they came to 
the end of the hotel, they turned again and walked as 
far as the lane, cut up through it and came out on the 
corner of the lot, where they got into the carriage. 




500 In the Market Place. 

Mr. Gilphin stepped inside v/hile the detective jumped 
upon the box with the driver, and they followed on 
after the Count, keeping at some distance behind him, 
until he entered the gate of the Weston Villa, Miss 
Graham’s residence, went up the gravel walk, rang 
the bell at the great hall door, and was admitted by 
the butler. 

‘'There was a time and not so very long ago,” he 
said to himself, stopping before the window, and 
crossing his arms, “that had I met Charles Leighton 
face to face, as I did to-day, I would have struck him 
to the earth dead, but since then other influences have 
been brought to bear” — and there rose before him the 
tall figure of a woman, as she stood that October 
night in the library, a woman of rare, singular grace 
and beauty ; with a charm so unusual that it was a de- 
light to think of her. He could see her now as she 
stood that rainy autumn evening, speaking of things 
which he had never thought of, or if ever the ghost 
of them came by any chance to his ear, were treated 
as something vague and remote ; only read of in 
books. And when he did put them from him, with a 
smile of contempt, as not practicable ; he had no time 
for idle romances. He had heard ministers preach of 
conversions, and forgiveness, and all that sort of 
thing, but it was not so in real life. Men did not 
forgive — yes, the Christ taught forgiveness and lived 
it, but He was divine. In his dealings with men, he 
saw that the passions of selfishness, coveteousness, 
vindictiveness, jealousy, hate and revenge, were what 
colored most men and women’s actions; that they 


Something Like a Tear. 501 

were strong even in death. And nothing but some 
superhuman power could eradicate them. 

But she brought the opposite teaching so near to 
him, the real purpose of Christ’s mission, and what 
He taught ; she had brushed aside the mist and clouds, 
and had shown him, that down deep in his heart, 
there coiled something ugly, hateful ; something he 
petted and hugged for years, ready at the opportune 
moment to spring into a ferocious beast. She 
showed him, that love and forgiveness were the real 
and stern issues which led to life and happiness. Yes 
this is the strange part that woman plays, one blights 
for years a man’s life, another is a ministering angel, 
with, the healing touch in her fingers, bringing rest 
and peace to the tortured mind, and health to the sick 
soul. Eve tempted Adam, but Mary brought forth 
Christ. 

Yes, this beautiful, radiant woman had come into 
his life, giving him new hope, and a vision of broader 
fields of action. Her large spiritual eyes had flashed 
their light into his, like the rays of the sun, brighten- 
ing the dark clouds which hung over his past, and he 
felt he was going to live anew. 

‘The man I saw to-day was unlike the young man 
I knew fifteen years ago at the age of twenty-five. 
He was then a fine specimen of high-bred physical 
young manhood. His polished manners, his genial 
disposition, kindly and lovable ; but vain, passionate, 
pleasure hunting, indolent and vacillating. To-day 
his face bore the marks of his past indulgence. Yes, 
they must have led a gay life while his money lasted, 


502 


In the Market Place. 


and when it was gone he threw her off. Such men 
bear no burdens. How could he desert her, and his 
little son ; I suppose she was woman enough to feel 
her degradation, and incapacity to rear the little 
fellow. But where is Annette, Elsie’s mother?” he 
cried inwardly, folding his arms tighter over his 
breast, to choke down the pain that smote his heart. 
He turned from the window, and began to pace the 
floor again. '‘If I knew how to go about tracing her; 
if I could but find some clue to her whereabouts ; 
where he left her, where she was last seen; I could 
have her provided for by setting aside a monthly al- 
lowance to be paid at my bankers. Anything to keep 
her from going down, down ; for to throw a woman 
like Annette, used to the luxuries of a princess, upon 
the world destitute, to earn an honest living, impos- 
sible ; what could she do ? Oh, my God, this then is 
what it is to feel, what it is to be touched by the spirit 
of forgiveness ? Oh, my God, I cry out in my anguish 
for help to find the lost one. Help Thou, my God, 
my helplessness in this matter. I have plenty, thou- 
sands upon thousands of dollars, in stocks, railroad 
bonds, government bonds, lying idle in the vaults of 
the bank, of which I am one of the directors, and 
Elsie’s mother, perhaps cold, hungry and homeless ; 
seeking for shelter in some den of infamy.” He 
brushed something like a tear from his eyes, stopped 
before the window and drew aside the curtain. 

It was a cold, clear, star-light night. Snow-ball hill 
and the lane lay sheeted in glistening white. The tall 
elms shivered in their bare branches, and made a dark 


Something Like a Tear. 503 

tracery line, cutting against the deep violet arch 
above. The pines and fir trees along the path, rose 
up like black shrouded ghosts, keeping out all in- 
truders, even the ghost of poor Annette Lefarge. 
The city laid to the southeast, looking like great hills 
massed together, the smoke from its chimneys rising 
up„ up, as if from volcanoes, and curling slenderly 
like misty columns, until dispersed by the rarer air, 
and jeweled sky. ''Yes, yes,’’ he said, leaving the 
window, and throwing himself into a chair, "she, too, 
must be found.” He gulped down the big lump of 
bitterness that rose in his throat, from the memories 
of the night she deserted him, buried his face in his 
hands and sat a long time in thought. 

He had not seen Mrs. Lowell since the evening 
they met at the Mission home. Since then he had 
found to a certainty who the boy’s parents were, and 
had located Charles Leighton, who went under the 
assumed title of the Count Henri de Gascon. He was 
to be married in a few weeks to a Miss Graham. He 
had papers placed in his hands that morning by the 
detectives that would send the Count to a felon’s 
cell, but he did not care to take any action in the 
matter until he could see how things developed. He 
would wait and have an interview with Mrs. Lowell, 
and give her his plans for tracing Annette Lefarge. 
If necessary he would send a man to Paris in search 
of her, and if found to arrange matters so that she 
could receive a monthly income. He rose from his 
seat, crossed to the mantel-piece, looked at the clock ; 
its hour hand pointed to twelve. He turned the lamp 


504 In the Market Place. 

out, left the library, went into the hall, locked and 
bolted the front door, turned the gas in the hall low, 
and went up the stairs. Half way on the landing he 
met Beppo, who wagged his tail and saluted him with 
a sniff, and a friendly dog gurgle; then went down 
stairs and stretched himself full length before the 
front door, his usual bed for the night. Potipher 
Gilphin went to his room, little dreaming of the events 
that were fast crowding around him. 


CHAPTER XL 


she: knew the dying woman was the WIEE OE 

POTIPHER GIEPHIN^S YOUTH. 

It was nearly nine o’clock the following morning 
when Gartha reached Hetty Conners’ cottage and 
knocked at the door, which was answered in person 
by Mrs. Conners. Mrs. Conners recognized Gartha, 
whom she had met on several occasions at the Mis- 
sion. Hetty was surprised and startled to se.e Mrs. 
Lowell standing before her when she opened the 
door, but was also nearly beside herself with delight 
when Gartha made her errand known, and who it was 
she had come to see. She invited her into the sitting- 
room, where a fire of bright coals burned in a parlor 
stove. Gartha had brought Johnny, the gardener’s 
fourteen-year-old boy, to carry a heaping basket she 
had prepared of good things for the invalid. 

‘T’m heartily glad you’ve come ma’am,” said Hetty, 
her hands suddenly taking refuge under her clean 
gingham apron. I say clean, as if Hetty Conners 
could have anything about her person, or house, that 
was not clean, spin spankin clean. ‘'Mrs. Leighton 
ha’ been very poorly the last few days, the old colored 
woman could na leave her, she’s a goin’ fast. I’ll 
just go in an’ prepare her, though Mr. Alvin ha’ 

505 


In the Market Place. 


506 

spoken to her about your cornin’, I think it best to 
break it to her mesel, that a friend of Dr. Alvin ha’ 
came to pay her a visit.” 

Mrs. Leighton was seated in her rocking-chair by 
the stove. She had risen but a short while before 
and Aunt Louise had just completed her mistress’s 
toilet, when Mrs. Conners brought word that there 
was a lady in the sitting-room, a friend of Dr. Alvin, 
who wished to see Mrs. Leighton. Annette sat with 
her head leaning back on a pillow ; she wore the same 
figured Chinese silk house-gown she wore the cold 
January evening of a few weeks before, when we meet 
her again after two years, in the room of the little 
wing of Hetty Conners’ cottage. About the throat 
was arranged some fluffy black lace, which heightened 
the whiteness of her neck. And thrown over her 
shoulders in careless grace was her paisley shawl, 
though old its colors were still rich and fresh, and 
accentuated the paleness of her face. Her dark lux- 
uriant hair, that had lost none of its lustre, laid in 
waves upon the broad blue-veined forehead. Her 
elbows rested on the arms of the chair, and her 
slender white hands were clasped together on her lap. 
Louise stood by the cupboard, where she had just 
placed the cup and saucer she had been wiping. 
When Gartha entered the old black woman’s cheek 
became ashen in hue, as her eyes, for a second rested 
on Mrs. Lowell, then she turned her back to Gartha 
and buried her head in her apron. ‘‘Oh, Lo’d an’ 
Massa,” she cried to herself, “it’s she — the Superiess 
ob da institute Oh, blessed Lo’d, di ways suah 


Wife of Potipher Gllphin^s Youth, 507 

enough is pass finden out. Oh, blessed Saviour, Ise 
an ole sinna, Ise ben an awful sinful ole niga, an now 
Ye’s send an angel of macy to me an’ mine; to my 
Miss Annette, kase we turned our backs on de debil, 
an our faces to Ye.” She raised her head, and with 
her apron wiped the tears from her eyes, then turned 
smilingly to Gartha, who returned it with a bow of 
pleasant recognition. 

Gartha knew when she saw the old negress that the 
pale, emaciated, dying woman who sat before her was 
Annette Lefarge, the wife of Potipher Gilphin’s youth. 
The same face she saw that night in the shadow of 
the door-way of the Mission hall, whose great, dark 
violet eyes flashed one glance into hers ; a glance 
which seemed to tell the whole story of her life, and 
which seemed to haunt her and say to her, that those 
mysterious cords which pull, tie and knot lives to- 
gether, were at work drawing theirs. But the face 
she now looked upon was more softened, purified, 
and had that spiritual calm that comes from a soul at 
rest with God. Gartha felt deeply moved, with all 
her self-control, the tears welled to her eyes as she 
bent over and took the thin wasted hand Mrs. Leigh- 
ton proffered her between her own. Then she seated 
herself on the chair Hetty Conners placed for her 
near the invalid. 

‘T am a personal friend of Dr. Alvin,” said Gartha, 
repressing her emotions. “He called upon me yester- 
day and told me of a lady friend of his, an invalid in 
whom he was deeply interested, and that he would 
like me to visit the first opportunity I had. I live in 


In the Market Place. 


508 

the suburbs north of here, I came as early as possible 
this morning as I was so anxious to see you, and if 
it’s in my power to be of use to you — ” 

''It is so kind of you to take the trouble to come 
so far to visit any one so unworthy as 1. While I 
am pleased to see you, and grateful to Dr. Alvin, I 
am not worth so much care on his part, and attention 
on yours,’’ said Mrs. Leighton, a smile mingling with 
the tears that moistened her dark eyes. 

"You are not unworthy, dear; it is the greatest 
pleasure to me to be of use to you ; that is what we are 
here for ; it is what to live means. To help those 
who cannot help themselves ; to make the hours and 
the days pass pleasantly by to those who are ill. I 
have come as a friend and sister, and want you to 
look upon me as such ; my desire is to make you com- 
fortable and happy. I am going to take yourself and 
your nurse to my home in the suburbs, where she 
will be relieved of all resposiblity but to attend upon 
you. She and Mrs. Conners will get you ready to 
leave here by to-morrow morning. I shall be here 
about this time, or a little later, with a carriage. The 
snow has nearly all melted and the ride will not be 
long to my home.” 

"I fear, dear, that I will be a great annoyance to 
you. To take a sick woman like me to your home, 
with Louise, will be to burden yourself and your 
household. I have but a few weeks at most to live, 
and I am quite comfortable here. I live not in my 
surroundings now ; I have found it makes little differ- 
ence where we are, or what we have, if we are at oeace 


Wife of Potipher Gilphin’s Youth. 509 

with Him, then we are rich indeed. Mrs. Conners 
has been exceedingly kind to me, but there is one 
request I wish to make of you, dear and noble lady, 
that when I am gone, you will find a home for Louise, 
my old nurse, who carried me in her arms, from the 
hour I first opened my eyes to the light. And since 
my companion in days of prosperity, when I had no 
thought for the morrow, only the excitement, pleasure 
and gaities it might bring. And now in adversity and 
illness, my faithful and true friend,’’ she clasped her 
long tapering fingers together, as her great eyes 
rested appealingly on Gartha’s face. 

Aunt Louise turned an imploring gaze to Mrs. 
Lowell, and Gartha answered back with a nod, which 
conveyed to Louise that nothing would be revealed 
until the proper time. 

‘'My house in the suburbs is a lovely cottage with 
plenty of room,” said Gartha. "We have everything 
in abundance, milk, cream, fresh butter, chickens, 
eggs, fruit and vegetables of all kinds, and all the 
help I need. That is the only way to live ; any other 
way is simply existing. I am a great believer in the 
home, if it is only a cottage of two rooms with a little 
patch of ground around it, a flower garden, cats, dogs 
and chickens, these are great humanizers. If I were 
the king of a nation I would see to it that every 
laborer and working man had his cottage and patch 
of ground. A man loves his home, but no man or 
woman has ever been known to love their boarding- 
house, room or hotel. As it is we are a nation of 
homeless people. Yourself and Louise will be no 


510 


In the Market Place. 


trouble, just the reverse ; I wish you to be with me 
so that I can see to your wants and care for you. 
It is Dr. Alvin’s wish and my desire to make you as 
happy as possible while you are with us,” and Gartha 
bent over, lifted from the arm of the chair the white 
hand, and pressed it between her own two. 

'‘Have you always been like you are now?” said 
Mrs. Leighton, with a glow of admiration in her large 
eyes, and a small, round, red spot about as big as 
the rim of a thimble burned each cheek. "I think 
you must,” she said, answering her own question. "I 
have never met a woman like you ; yes, you know 
nothing of the world I have lived in. You are so 
innocent and pure, and still young, with such a noble 
bearing; you have also wealth and social position; 
and strange these, with so rare and radiant a beauty, 
have not been a snare to you.” 

"My dear Mrs. Leighton, while I may not have 
lived just in your world, I have lived; oh, yes, dear 
God, I have lived. The years of my girlhood were 
passed like most bright girls, in the love of a mother, 
and in the school-room. I have lived in the love of 
another, a man, who was as I supposed the ideal of 
all my girlhood dreams, and since I have seen every 
phase of life. But from a child up I have had the 
highest ideals, aims and aspirations. I hate the sys^ 
tern which condones the sins and immoralities of men, 
and makes the woman suffer. While I think, many 
of their wrongs have been of their own making, and 
come from their lethargy, narrowness of vision, in 
not seeing their power, to make life for themselvesi 


Wife of Potipher Gilphin’s Youth. 51 1 

and their sisters broader and freer from the tram- 
mels which society burdens them with, yet there is no 
sex in sin. I hate the system of educating the heads 
of children and not their hearts, sentiments and spirit- 
uality. Letting the boy and girl grow up with 
dwarfed minds, going through life looking at things 
with a twisted vision. I hate the system which gives 
a few men the right to take the work of the best 
brains of the world, in literature, science and art, in 
the marts, fill their coffers and not give a cent to those 
who produced them. Jesus said the laborer is worthy 
of his meat.’’ 

‘'If you are a specimen of the new woman, she is 
one of intellect, soul and spirit ; it is strange there is 
not more women like you. In you the Lord has 
shown me what a failure my own life has been. He 
gave me beauty, talent and many rare gifts of mind, 
but like the prodigal son, I used them in riotious liv- 
ing. Women like you elevate men ; you lead them to 
live up to all that is best and highest. Women like 
me like to fascinate, and pander to their baser nature, 
we triumph in the senses,” said Mrs. Leighton with a 
tinge of color on her cheeks, while her eyes for a 
moment sparkled and danced with bright intelligence. 

“Dear, you have been the kind of woman destined 
to be loved by men, fatal to them, but not to be made 
happy. I am not the kind of woman that men love ; 
I demand too much. I am of a type that most men 
cry away with, we will have none of her. To live as 
she requires we should, is to disarrange the whole 
order of things, and we wiH not have it. There may^ 


512 


In the Market Place. 


be a few men, here and there, of the Dr. Alvin kind, 
who may appreciate me, but they are the exception.’^ 
‘‘Yes, but such men consider only the exceptional 
woman, worthy of their love and homage. Oh, what 
happiness to be loved by such a man. Men like Dr. 
Alvin do not woo a woman to-day with protestations 
of love, to betray her on the morrow. Do the vilest 
deeds, the most treacherous acts, and in a few years, 
when passion cools, passion which was never based on 
a spark of honor or truth, desert her. This is the 
fate of most women of the world, no matter how beau- 
tiful. You said that such women as me are destined 
to be loved by men; yes, men of the world, sensual 
men. We receive back just what we give ; we pander 
to the animal passions, in return we receive but animal 
love; the hand which fondly caresses to-day, strike 
us a fatal blow on the morrow. This is the price we 
pay for disregarding the divine order of things, the 
sacred law of marriage. I say sacred, for it is the 
only light in which we can hold marriage, as in it lies 
woman’s safety and dignity ; indeed we might say the 
safety of the whole human family. With a woman of 
the world, when one man abandons her, there are 
others always ready to go over the same frenzied 
protestations of love, the same act in the drama. 
But there are women who do not get so low that they 
care to repeat it more than once in their life.” She 
laid her head back on the pillow, the red spots burned 
deeper on eaclucheek^ and the long lashes closed over 
the eyes, which were dry and hot from the pain that 
gnawed at her heart. 


Wife of Potipher Gilphin’? Youth. 513 

“Dear, few women who have lived, loved and have 
married but what have suffered,’’ and Gartha, observ- 
ing the invalid’s exhaustion, rose, went to the basket 
she had brought and took from it a bottle of currant 
wine, asked Louise for a glass and poured it half full 
and handed it to Mrs. Leighton, who sipped several 
mouthfuls, and seemed refreshed by it. Then Gartha 
took leave of Mrs. Leighton, who was completely 
captivated by her. “I cannot express how deeply I 
feel your kindness. Mrs. Conners has been more 
than a friend to me and mine, but I shall be happy to 
go with you on the morrow. Who am I that my 
Heavenly Father should be so mindful of me, while 
so many others are left to die, unknown and neg- 
lected?” 

“Oh, Mistis Lowell, honey,” cried Louise, as she 
closed the door of Mrs. Leighton’s room, and she 
stood with Gartha in the sitting-room, “Oh, Lody, 
Lody, di ways suah is pass finden out,” and she 
buried her face in her apron. “Oh, Mistis Lowell, 
Ise couldn’t ab believed my eyes, dat it was ye when 
Ise seed ye standin’ afo’ me. Den Ise feared so about 
de chile. Ise so mighty glad, Mistis, honey, ye kept 
dat to yesef ; das’ no use now, honey, she be so poo’ly, 
an’ it bes’ to let her go calmly in de Lo’d. Oh, honey, 
honey, Ise so full, Ise so ova-come, Ise donna what 
to say. Oh, Mistis Lowell, ye hab lifted a heavy load 
ob dis ole woman’s shouldas. Ise a worrin, an’ a 
worrin’ about my po’ Miss Annette, she be a dyin’, 
Ise suah she be gone las’ night, an’ now de Lo’d hab 
sent ye to help me,” 


514 In the Market Place. 

‘Xeave everything to me, Louise,” said Gartlia, 
laying her hand caressingly on Louise’s shoulder. 
‘‘Dr. Alvin and myself have arranged it all. You will 
have nothing to do or think of but to attend on your 
mistress ; get yourself and her ready to leave here by 
to-morrow morning. I had Anne put up enough 
food to last you both until I come. Give Mrs. Leigh- 
ton all she can eat and plenty of the currant wine, it 
wont hurt her. I want to see Mrs. Conners before I 
go.” With that Hetty came in, and Gartha told her 
of her plans, and that she was coming in the morning 
to take Mrs. Leighton to her home in the suburbs, 
and thanked her for hei> kindness to the sick woman. 
“You are like the widow in the gospel, others gave 
out of their abundance, you giveth all you had.” 

“The Lord ha’ blessed me greatly, an’ it wa’ na 
much to share wie the gentle sick lady. I wie'sure 
miss her now, but it’s better so. I canna make her so 
comfortable a’ she wa be wie you, an’ she needs all 
her nurse’s attention.” Hetty Conners’ broad face 
beamed on Gartha as she reluctantly drew her hand 
from Mrs. Lowell’s and hid it under the fold of her 
apron. 

Aunt Louise with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, 
went back to her mistress’s room, and began to re- 
move the things from the basket, and as she did she 
laid them on the table. There was a lovely, large loaf 
of white, home-made bread, a jar of strawberry pre- 
serves, a roasted chicken, brown and delicious look- 
ing. A bottle full of fresh cream, and a small roll of 


Wife of Potipher Gilphin’s Youth. 515 

fresh butter, a paper of fragrant tea, enough to la^' 
two or three days. There was everything of the b' 
and daintiest. And Louise, who stood with her ba 
to Mrs. Leighton, at sight of all these good things, 
was so overcome that she turned around, looked at 
Airs. Leighton, who was sitting with her head resting 
on the pillow, her eyes closed, her face white and wan 
the stamp of death on its beautiful lineaments. She 
stepped forward and threw herself at mistress’s feet. 

‘^Oh, my Miss Annette, my chile, Ise be’n an ole 
sinna, an ole sinful Niga. Ise have a black face, an’ 
a black soul. Da was in de souf on yoe’s mother 
plantation in de ole home, an ole Mammy Alarranda, 
she hab a black face, but all de white folks an’ de 
blacks sed she hab de whitest soul in all de country 
round. But praise de Lod, dis monin, dat He hab 
macy on me, an shown me His goodness, an dat He 
send angels in de guise ob men an women to do His 
wok. Dat He send His only begotten Son in de 
likeness ob man, to teach us de way of salvation. An 
show us how to lib, an’ how to die. But oua hearts 
ab so harden an’ unbelieven, f’om liben in de flesh an 
debil, dat ou eyes am a holden, an de light shet out, 
and de spirit canno enter, an de message am closed. 
Oh, my Mistis, honey, Ise pray de Lod dat de man 
who lef ye to de macy ob de wold, an broke ye heart, 
dat He will deal wid him, an — ” 

“Hishe-ee — ,” said Mrs. Leighton, bending over 
and laying her thin white hand caressingly upon the 
old black woman’s head. 


In the Market Place. 


516 

''Oh, honey, Miss Annie, Ise so full, my heart am 
sore. It’ll break if Ise don’ speak out an’ thank de 
Lo’d fo’ His goodness.” 

"Oh, my friend,” said Mrs. Leighton softly, while 
the long black lashes veiled her eyes, as if to stay the 
tears that streamed from them down her cheeks. 
"Friend of my childhood, friend of the years of my 
sinful, useless life. Friend now in desertion, illness, 
poverty and death. Oh, Louise, dear nurse and maid, 
your face is black, but your soul is far, far, whiter 
than mine. My sins have been many and great, but 
He who cast from Mary Magdalene seven devils cast 
them out of me, and my heart is clean, made whiter 
than snow, because washed in the blood of the Lamb. 
The world scoffs at miracles, dear; I am a miracle, 
who can understand the work done in my soul un- 
less they experience it ; that such a work can be done 
is marvelous. Now I know what it is to be born 
again.” 

There was no difference now between the woman 
of birth, education, talent and beauty. The woman 
who had dazzled some of the most brilliant men in 
Europe, the woman whom titled men, savants, artists, 
statesmen paid court to, than the old Negress who 
knelt at her feet, her white hand caressing her tur- 
baned head. It was all merged in one, and that soul, 
the soul of the old slave, the bond woman, with her 
black face, rose up white above all material conditions 
of life, and in her nobility of character, her long faith- 
fulness and unselfish love for her mistress, annihilated 
all distinction and they stood equally soul to soul 


BOOK IV. 


CHAPTER I. 

AND SPREAD HDR WHITER PINGERS APART. 

It was the day before Effie Graham’s wedding, the 
hour eight in the evening, Miss Graham is in her 
boudoir, she is standing before the large dressing- 
case. She is clad in a house robe, of white camel’s 
hair, a mass of creamy lace and ribbon. She stands 
gazing down on something in a jewel case, wound 
about its raised dias of purple velvet, that looks like 
a chain of stars, picked from the milky way, of a clear 
cold night, when not a fleck is to be seen in the sky. 
Her eyes glow with delight, as they rest upon their 
blue white flame, dancing, sparkling, and scintillat- 
ing. She lifts them from their velvet cushioned bed 
and holds them lovingly to her fair cheek. Then 
crosses them over her temples, and twists them in 
the lustrous coils of her hair. ''How beautiful,” she 
murmurs to herself, as with- a pleased gratified smile, 
she watches their gleam and flash from the rich satiny 
braids of brown hair. "A bridal gift from my fiance, 
to be worn on the morrow, my wedding day. What a 
price he must have paid for them.” She returns them 
to their place in their case, closes the lid and locks it. 

517 


In the Market Place. 


518 

The count could not have done anything more 
gallant to please his intended bride, than to send her 
this necklace of rare and costly gems. What a pity 
he paid such a price for them ! He had given her 
but few presents since their engagement, but he now 
made up for it in the taste, workmanship, and costli- 
ness of his bridal gift. She knew the Count was not 
wealthy, he had given her a short sketch of his life. 
He told her, that his father was a wealthy American, 
who gave him a large sum of money when he became 
of age. He took this and went abroad and traveled 
all over Europe, during this tour he went to a village 
in Brittany, the beauty of which he was much pleased 
with. This village originally belonged to the estate 
of a nobleman which was situated about two miles 
from it. The estate at this time was for sale, 
but it was small. It belonged to an old titled 
Norman family, which had become extinct. He 
bought the estate and adopted the title and car- 
ried it through all the years he lived abroad. 
He told her also that he expected another fortune 
soon, that his father from some cause had cut him off 
in his will without a dollar. And that he was waiting 
for his brother and sister that were traveling in 
Europe to return, when he hoped the estate would 
be divided equally between them without the delay 
of the law. Effie while she loved the Count as much 
as it was in her nature to love any man, loved self 
better, and wealth, luxury, position, to such a degree 
that they became paramount to all else. She turned 
from the dressing-case, crossed the floor to the 


Spread Her White Jeweled Fingers. 519 

mantel-piece, and looked at the small Swiss clock 
that stood upon it. 

''I wonder what can keep the Count,’’ she said to 
herself, ‘'he told me he had a few matters to attend 
to which might keep him until after eight, but to 
look for him about half an hour later. It is now 
nine o’clock.” She left the mantel and threw herself 
into a chair, before an open grate, where a small coal 
fire burned, the late April spring evening being cool. 
“We leave to-morrow evening for New York, and 
remain there a few weeks ; then back again home. In 
June we go east visiting all the watering places, and 
in the fall we sail for Europe. I shall then have my 
longed for wish gratified, to see the old world; we 
will not stay there more than six months or a year, I 
prefer my own country, and my own home. I have a 
large fortune, it demands my care as a great deal of 
it is in real estate. I find my agents and even my 
attorney require constant watching. If I neglect to 
look after things they rob me unmercifully. I will 
now have the protection of a husband, but he can have 
no control of my estate, as my aunt left it in her will, 
that he can have but the benefit from the income, and 
only that through me. 

“I shall be very happy,” she mused, resting her 
glance on the Swiss clock. “I wonder what aunty 
would say if she were alive ! I have more than ful- 
filled her wishes and all she hoped for, but never 
realized. She never dreamed that I would stand 
where I do to-night, a queen in the social world, and 
on the morrow to wed a polished cultured gentleman. 


520 


In the Market Place. 


A man of family and position, and a title thrown in.” 
She smiled, for Effie like Mrs. Calwald, had a sense of 
the weak points of humanity. She knew she was one 
of the mushrooms which spring up amidst the rank 
weeds of society's field ; nurtured by its soil until suffi- 
ciently ripe, then it calls all its friends to come and 
see and admire. 

‘'What is that?” she said in a low voice, looking 
towards the door. “I thought I heard a step on the 
stairs ; dear me it's near ten o'clock, and the Count 
has not made his appearance, I believe the excitement 
and strain of being constantly on the go for weeks 
seeing to things, has left me a little nervous. He has 
probably been detained by some one ; finds a hundred 
and one things to do ; but he was to be here at nine 
at the farthest.” She laid her head wearily against 
the back of the chair. 

“I had a letter frorn Arthur Lowell to-day, he 
wished me happiness, but upbraided me. Wrote that 
I had ruined his life, made desolate his home, and sent 
his noble wife, into the world, a wanderer. I — how 
dare he write me thus.” Her cheek flamed scarlet 
and the blood leaped hot and red, to her temples, and 
burned to the roots of her hair. She kicked her small 
slippered foot, out from under her long white wool 
tea-gown, then stamped it on the floor with wrath. 
“How dare he — I never took the trouble to even the 
turning of my little finger, to gain his admiration. — 
Yes he is handsome, imperious and cold as an iceberg, 
but I brought him to my feet. He did not think of 
his noble wife then. Noble,” — she gave ^ light giggle, 


Spread Her White Jeweled Fingers. 521 

'‘I hate her, she had a way with her that made me 
feel uncomfortable, disagreeable and mean. She 
v/as one of your good women, superior women, 
bah, — the year I spent in their home, there was times 
I could have smote her to the floor where she stood, 
but I have had my revenge. I didn't want her hus- 
band fool, — he thought he could play with fire and 
not get singed. Ha, ha, — he went too far and his 
noble wife flew. Ha, ha, he didn't seem to mind her 
leaving him at the time. A year later he begged me 
to promise to marry him, if he sued for a divorce. 
He said he could obtain one any day, on the plea of 
desertion. Bah, — I knew you, Arthur, you love 
power too well, and my fortune was your incentive. 
I had higher aims, I did not care to start in my 
married life, with a scandal and divorce. I made up 
my mind when aunty died and left me her heiress, that 
my marriage must be the baptism that would wash 
away the taint on my own name, and her sins. Let 
him bring his noble wife back now, she is one of your 
women who look upon marriage as indissoluble. 
Heigh, ho, well — I shall have a husband, and pro- 
tector, which will put an end to all this annoyance, 
that every single woman, whether rich or poor, has 
to contend with. Ah, there he is at last, I hear his 
step in the hall, but I did not hear the front door bell 
ring." She listens a moment. ‘'How strangely still 
the house seems, what is that, I was sure I heard his 
step in the hall, and on the stairs, and some one just 
now part the portieres. Aunt Madge, Johnson, 
Emma," she calls rising from her chair, but stopped 


522 


In the Market Place. 


to look at the clock. ^'It's nearly eleven and Henri 
not here ; there is something wrong, I feel it, some- 
thing has happened to the Count. Oh — no — not 
now,'^ she cried, raising her arms and clutching at her 
hair, ‘‘spare me, oh ye fates, spare me. To-morrow is 
my wedding day ; to-morrow my triumph will be com- 
plete ; over those who would push me aside, trample 
me, — crush me under their f^et, as pitilessly as they 
would a worm. On the morrow I am to throw aside 
my own tainted name, for an honorable one, the name 
of a man, whose devotion to me in the last year and 
more has been unceasing; he loves me I am sure he 
does. To-morrow I am to be the Countess Henri de 
Gascon. Oh, it must be, it shall be, it will be.*' She 
stretched out her arms, held out her hands, and spread 
her white jewelled fingers apart, working them as if 
playing some musical instrument. “Ha, ha, — dear 
me how absurd, to have allowed myself to get into 
such a nervous state about Henri, as if anything could 
come between us now, to prevent our marriage. He 
will be here in a few minutes, or I shall receive some 
message from him. I will go to Aunt Madge’s room, 
and consult with her.” 

A loud ring at the door. “At last,” she cried, and 
rushed into the hall, and stood at the head of the 
stairs. “What is it Johnson?” she called to the black 
butler. “A letter fo' you Miss,” he said, as he tripped 
up the stairs, and handed the white envelope lying on 
a silver salver. She reached out and took it from 
the salver, carried it to her boudoir, threw herself into 
a chair, she had a second before vacated, t re open 


Spread Her White Jeweled Fingers. 523 

the seal and read. “Dear and loved one, have been 
detained by a little matter of business, which will keep 
me until a late hour, too late to go to the Weston 
Villa. Cannot explain now, but will be with you as 
early as possible in the morning. Do not let this 
trouble you, but go to bed and sleep soundly. 

“Yours until death, 

“Henri Leighton, Count de Gascon.” 

The letter fluttered from ! er fingers to the floor, 
she bent over and buried her face in her hands. 

Ah, my idolent ease-loving Effie, your cold, hard, 
selfish heart, which has never known a throb of sym- 
pathy for others, will be on the morrow, torn and 
lacerated, with the pain of humiliation. Your head 
will be bowed down to the dust, and you will be 
crushed by the boulders you have reared for your- 
self. Your tainted name shall follow you, and society 
which you have bidden to your nuptials, will not pity 
you ; your ill-gotten money will not save you, society 
will go away in silence, only to mock, scoff and jeer. 
Retribution has come to you early, earlier than to 
some, but it comes to all like you sooner or later. 
“Thou shalt mete out measure for measure, and if 
thou art any man’s debtor, thou shalt be cast 
into prison and stay there until the last farthing is 
paid.” 


CHAPTER II. 


HE SAID WITH A VOICE EOW WITH THE ECHOES OE 
PASSIONATE DESPAIR. 

It was nearly eight o'clock, when the Count Henri 
de Gascon, entered his rooms, at the little hotel in 
the suburbs. He had been down in the city all day, 
attending to small matters, which every man wishes 
to square up as it were, before so important event as 
his marriage. As that is the beginning of a new life 
to both man and woman. He removed his hat, then 
his light overcoat, and threw it upon the table, as 
ever since the Count's return to his native land, he 
had dispensed with a valet. He goes to the wardrobe 
opens both doors, pulls down coats, pants, vests, 
dropping them on the floor; he then takes from the 
upper shelf two valises, and throws them on the floor 
beside his clothes. From one corner of the room he 
pulls out a large canvass trunk of foreign make, and 
begins to pack the clothes in it. As he does there 
comes a light knock at the door, and a young man 
enters, he is laden with a large bundle, and several 
boxes; they are from the Count's French tailor, and 
the large bundle contains his wedding suit. The 
boxes hold hat, gloves, and all the paraphernalia 
necessary for so important occasion. He ordered 
the man to unwrap the bundles. 

524 


Echoes of Passionate Despair. 525 

‘'All here?’' he asked, glancing hurriedly at each 
piece, as the young man takes them from their re- 
spective boxes, and laid them on the table. 

“Oui, Monsieur, ils sont complete.’’ 

“The bill.” 

“Oui Monsieur.” 

He throws the young man, a silver dollar, “Drink 
to my health, to-morrow, I am to wed, wish me God 
speed.” The young man bows almost to the floor 
with thanks, he will be pleased to drink to Monsieur’s 
health and happiness, and takes his leave. The Count 
resumes his packing, he must be at the Weston Villa 
at least by nine o’clock. He has nearly finished, and 
is placing in his small Russian leather valise, brushes, 
combs, bottles, and toilet articles of every description ; 
when there comes another knock at the door, a 
curious knock, a knock though light as a tap, but 
which sends the blood cold and chill, to the marrow, 
of the guilty conscience. How strange that a knock 
should convey so much, the young Frenchman with 
the bundles had knocked but a few moments before, 
but the Count felt no alarm at his knock. The door 
is flung open, and two men enter. The white marble 
mantle-piece from which the Count was just in the 
act of lifting a small package, was not whiter than 
his face, and he stood as if petrified to stone with his 
arm half raised, still holding the package. The men 
unbuttoned their coats and showed their uniform. 

“Charles Leighton, alias Count Henri de Gascon,” 
said one of the men, the smaller of the two, “you are 
charged with forging a note for five thousand dollars. 


In the Market Place. 


526 

upon the Missouri state bank of commerce, payable 
to your order, and signed Potipher J. Gilphin. Charles 
Leighton, I arrest you in the name of the State of 
Missouri/^ 

At these words all the future with its golden 
dreams of ease, luxury, wealth, the love of wife, and 
perhaps children, living together in happiness, enjoy- 
ing a halo of quietness which he hoped in time would 
wipe out the past and bring about the stamp of re- 
spectability and standing, which most men desire 
sooner or later. All rose up before him, like spectres 
following one after another in sequence. But now 
by one act, he was lost, an act which he assured him- 
self there could be no danger to him before his mar- 
riage. When that was consummated every dollar of it 
would be paid. He seemed to have suddenly aged 
with years, his arms fell at his side, his head dropped 
o:. his breast, and his lips were ashen in hue, as he 
said in a voice low and hoarse, with the echo of 
passionate despair. ‘'I deny the charge of forgery. 
There was a note cashed for that amount a week ago 
upon the state bank of commerce, signed Potipher 
J. Gilphin. It is all right and legitimate, the money 
will be forthcoming in a few days. My father’s estate 
is valued at over two millions, my sister and brother 
are traveling abroad, I expect their return soon, so 
when they arrive the estate will be settled I hope 
without litigation. To-morrow I am to be married 
to a rich heiress, a most accomplished and beautiful 
woman. To arrest me to-night and throw me into 
prison will ruin my whole future, make me an outcast 


Echoes of Passionate Despair. 527 

and a vagabond; cover my family’s good name with 
ignominy, and an innocent woman with shame and 
humiliation. I am no villian, if you will give me until 
after to-morrow, I will make every dollar of the five 
thousand good.” He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly, 
passionately. 

‘'We will have to arrest you sir, it’s our orders, here 
are the papers from the chief of the detective secret 
service bureau, also chief of police. We must take 
you, you can easily find bail to-night or in the 
morning.” 

"By whom was the warrant sworn out ?” 

"I think by the president and cashier of the bank.” 

"Have you any acquaintance with Potipher Gil- 
phin ?” asked the Count. 

"I know the gentleman when I see him, but have no 
acquaintance with him. I do not think he had any- 
thing to do with your arrest.” 

"Come get on your things,” said the second gentle- 
man, who spoke now for the first time. "You can 
send for an attorney, when you get down, he can 
easily find some one to go on your bail.” 

"But the newspapers will get hold of it. For God’s 
sake keep it out of the newspapers, until after to- 
morrow anyway. Make your card a good one, and 
keep it from the papers.” 

"No reporter will be given an inkling of it to-night, 
or to-morrow or the next day, we will guarantee that 
if you plank down the trumps.” 

They helped him on with his overcoat, which was a 
light one. The spring evening being cool ; put on his 


In the Market Place. 


528 

hat, and led him to the door and into the hall. One 
of the men took the key from the inside of his room 
door, locked it and dropped it into one of the pockets 
of his outer coat. They then went quietly down the 
stairs, and out of the ladies’ entrance and into the 
street, where they slipped the steel hand-cuffs over his 
white wrists, whiter than any woman’s. There was a 
carriage waiting at the curb, they helped him in, for 
he seemed to have lost all power over himself, and to 
be perfectly incapacitated to move a limb. The two 
men jumped in after him and they were driven to the 
city hall, where he was placed in a cell. 

So the Count Henri de Gascon guilty of all the 
vices in the calendar of the fast set, of the men of 
the upper world, to which he belonged ; yet was con- 
sidered by his associates a man of honor, according 
to their standard of morals, and code of ethics. He 
asked that his attorney, Mr. Burroughs, be sent for 
immediately. When Mr. Burroughs arrived the Count 
related to him the whole particulars of the transaction 
with the bank. The attorney, a little sallow man, 
rested his cold, deep set gray eyes upon him, twisted 
his mouth very much to one side. ‘‘Bad business, bad 
business,” he repeated, in a sort of whistle,drawing in 
his dry thin lips. “I could not believe until I entered 
this cell, that you, your father’s son, Charles Leighton, 
could stoop to commit a felony.” 

“Don’t, Burroughs, don’t I beg of you, preach now, 
I can’t stand it. But for God’s sake help me out of 
this hole, do something, something to get me out of 
here before morning. Can’t you fix things up, money 


Echoes of Passionate Despair. 529 

will do most anything. You know to-morrow morn- 
ing I am to be married at eleven o’clock. See some 
of the officials in authority, I can be placed under 
bonds until after the ceremony ; I am perfectly willing 
to return here to prison after the wedding, until the 
regular bond can be arranged. Do something to save 
Miss Graham from this scandal and disgrace. Then 
no one need ever know.” 

He paced up and down the floor of his cell in short 
quick strides breathing hard and blowing like a race 
horse after a two mile heat. His face at times red, 
as red as a feather from a red bird’s breast, then again 
deadly pale. As he strode up and down, he pulled off 
his overcoat and threw it on a wooden bench which 
was meant for a chair ; then his dress coat, flinging it 
on top of his overcoat. He tugged at his cravat and 
let it drop on the floor, opened his shirt collar, and so 
on in his nervousness. 

‘'My dear young man, you made the remark just 
now that money can do most anything, — well not 
everything, there are some things it won’t undo. One 
thing too much of it, is about as bad, and worse than 
too little of it. And too much of it has been your 
curse. It is a fortunate thing that your arrest 
happened before the minister had made yourself and 
Miss Graham man and wife. Why my dear sir, you 
run a chance of being sent to the penitentiary for 
twenty years, if the bank and the man whose name 
you signed to the check chooses to prosecute you. 
We Americans don’t mind sharp tricks and we are 
decidedly loose in many things, but we can’t nor don’t 
34 


530 


In the Market Place. 


tolerate forgery. Try and quiet yourself,” he said, 
rising, “and I will go and see what can be done.” 

"“Order me a box of the best Havanas, Burroughs, a 
hot pot of coffee, a chop and some fried potatoes and 
a bottle of the best French Au de Vie, from the hotel 
L’s restaurant.” 

So on this your wedding eve. Count Henri de Gas- 
con, Charles Leighton, son of an American million- 
aire, the quasi clerk, and soi-distant nobleman is 
housed in a felon’s cell. All night long he paced the 
floor like a caged animal, while the poof old man of 
law went in and out, here and there, seeking for bail 
for his unfortunate client. He spoke with all the 
prominent officials and other men who might help; 
sending messages back and forth to the chief of police, 
mayor of the city, also the president of the bank, and 
the judge of the court, where the case would have to 
come up for trial. But nothing could be done that 
night, it was with the Count as it was with the old 
negro who was carrying the coffin of his child on his 
shoulders alone through the streets to the grave-yard, 
when some one remonstrated with him for not having 
the child buried in the regular way, he answered, 
“Dis is my funeral an not you’as.” So it was not 
their wedding to be, the morrow was not to be their 
marriage day ; and they attached but little importance 
to the prisoner’s plea, to be released for twelve hours. 
We have become so used to ecandal of this sort, that 
our fine edges have become (somewhat blunted, and 
we have grown to regard them as an every-day occur- 


Echoes of Passionate Despair. 531 

rence. »An old warrior once said, that ^'he had been 
through so many battlefields, that he came to regard 
dead men pretty much as he did dead grouse after a 
day’s shooting.” It is said we can even ^row used to 
murder. 

The long night wore away and the morning came, 
and still there was nothing accomplished. Then there 
was one more appeal made to the president of the 
bank, double the sum of that cashed was offered to be 
paid to the bank if the president would sign the 
prisoner’s release for six hours. But the president 
said, ‘‘Charles Leighton’s bond would have to be 
fixed by law. He could do nothing until the case 
came up in the court. So the hour for the wedding 
drew near, the Count hoped to the last, sending a 
note to his bride to be, about nine o’clock that he 
would be on time. Mr. Burroughs advised him to 
take things philosophically while he went on his pain- 
ful errand to the Weston Villa. After his attorney 
left him the Count looked at his watch again, it 
wanted but a quarter to eleven. He stopped pacing 
the floor, his face was white as death, his hair dis- 
heveled, his eyes blood shot Lnd sunken, his handsome 
physique stooped and shrunken after his long night’s 
vigil. He held the watch in his hand until the hour 
finger reached eleven. He gasped and moaned out, 
“It’s all up with me, Effie will scorn me when she 
hears, spurn me as she would a rat. I know her, she 
considered it a square deal, she was giving me money, 
youth, and beauty, for what she considered family. 


532 


In the Market Place. 


position and rank. Annette Lefarge you are 
avenged.” He throw himself on the old wooden 
bench. He had walked without ceasing fourteen 
hours. 


CHAPTER III. 


THIS COSTI^Y WHITE RAIMENT WAS NOTHING NOW BUT 
USELESS RAGS. 

The morning in every sense was propitious of 
wedding bells. The earth was young and fair again, 
goldened with bright sunshine, and glad and joyous 
with the song of robin and blue-bird. Soft skies of 
azure, soft breezes blowing and carrying delicious 
perfumes in every waft. The Weston Villa, stood 
grand and stately, in the midst of its trees, and wide 
avenues of pines and dark firs. The hour hand of the 
little Swiss clock on the mantel-piece, in Effie’s 
boudoir, had reached ten. Miss Graham stood before 
her mirror, where Mrs. Norris and her maid Emma, 
were putting the finishing touches to her toilet. As 
was said, she had received a note from the Count 
about nine, begging her not to feel uneasy, or the 
least alarmed ; that he would be sure to be with her at 
ten at the furthest ; and to be ready so the ceremony 
might proceed without delay. And what may seem 
strange conduct to you now on my part, I will fully 
explain when you are my dear wife. 

When Mrs. Norris and Emma put the last pin in 
the wreath of orange blossoms, Effie stood a moment 
gazing in the mirror, which reflects her superb beauty, 

533 


534 


In the Market Place. 


regal in the white splendor of her bridal robes ; in the 
web-like veil of rare and costly lace, that falls over her 
bare shoulders, and down until like snow rifts it rests 
among the folds of the long satin train. In the ropes 
of pearls, which clasp her ivory throat and twine in 
the lustrous braids of hair. Pearls wind about her 
arms and make a girdle for her waist. She is very 
pale, all brides are pale. 

She had not slept well the night before, just before 
dawn she fell into a slight slumber, and her wakeful- 
ness left dark penciled lines under her eyes. She 
turned from the mirror and threw herself into an easy 
chair, the one she had sat in the evening before. In 
a few minutes her bridesmaids, six in number, began 
to troop into the room and surround her, they looked 
as they stood a second grouped about her chair like 
a bouquet of roses composing all their different 
hues. They were lovely girls, fresh as the spring 
morning and typical of the late April day. They had 
been selected from the best families of their set, and 
ranged in years from eighteen to twenty-two, Nannie 
McClure being one of them. Then Raymond Clin- 
ton, the Count’s best man to be, who had seen him 
last about half after seven the evening before and 
parted with him on the corner of the Ave. E where he 
took the electric car for the suburbs. Then young 
Herendon, with Freddy Faboul, make their appear- 
ance. Freddy takes the girls by storm, and they all 
set up a titter as they gaze on him admiringly, for cer- 
tainly Beau Brummel himself could never have ex- 
celled him in the taste, expensiveness and novelty of 


Costly Raiment Nothing but Useless Rags. 535 

his get-up, as Mrs. Calwald would say. His dress was 
of black silk velvet, his pants, a swallow-tail coat of the 
same, lined with black satin, a white satin vest richly 
embroidered, white full bosom shirt of soft India silk, 
and white flowing neck scarf. And for boutonneire, 
a mass of white roses. He carried in his hand a large 
bouquet of white roses, which he presented to the 
bride to be. 

The carriages begin to arrive, Mrs. Norris leaves 
her niece to go down to the drawing-room to receive 
the guests, and meets the Rev. Jerome Arlington of 
St. John’s Episcopal church. The hands of the little 
Swiss clock on the mantel-piece, have reached the 
half hour, and still the Count delays his coming. What 
a wonderful fascination this little Swiss clock has for 
Effle, her eyes never leave it. The merry chit chat, of 
her bridesmaids, and she herself, seemingly the mer- 
riest of them all ; but they fail to interest her, fail to 
distract her glance, to roam one second from its 
face. The murmur of voices, the gurgle of laughter 
mingled with the strains of music, the scent of roses, 
and perfume of rare exotics float up from below and 
reach her ears and all her senses. But they only seem 
to mock her. A great fear is upon her, it has taken 
hold of her heart, and clutches it with pain as the 
seconds and minutes go by. She wants to scream out 
for relief, but she apparently is the gayest of the 
group. And Raymond Clinton wishes the ceremony 
over, so that he can have the first kiss. 

The carriages still keep rolling up to the door and 
empty their burdens. Ah, her quick ear detects a 


In the Market Place. 


. 536 

louder murmur among the guests. She rises from her 
chair, crosses the floor, and goes into the hall ; her 
bridesmaids’glances follow her with admiration as she 
glides past them in the silvery shimmer and sheen of 
her cloud-like radiance. She returns again, and her 
eyes scan the Swiss clock, the hour-hand has touched 
eleven. Yet in the voices and laughter, the pitter 
patter, and tread of many feet ; the rustle and 
swish of silks, satins and laces ; the waft and 
whir-rr-r of fans; she hears Johnson’s quick step on 
the stairs, she bounds to the door, and out again into 
the hall, where her butler stands before her, and holds 
out a silver salver with a card upon it. She picks it 
up, reads the name ; it is strange to her, “Show him up 
to Mrs. Norris’ room.” She flies to her aunt’s apart- 
ments, and in a second, is confronted by an elderly 
legal-looking gentleman. 

She closes the door, paying no heed to the court- 
eous bow of the gentleman. After an interview of 
about five minutes she rings for her maid ; her maid 
responds to her summons, “Send Mrs. Norris up here 
without delay.” Mrs. Norris is as quick to answer 
as her maid. Then the Rev. Jerome Arlington is sent 
for ; the legal gentleman states to them that the Count 
Henri de Gascon had been suddenly taken ill at his 
hotel last night, and hoping to recover sufficiently to 
have the wedding take place at the time appointed, 
he delayed to the last moment, when his physician 
informed him he could not leave his bed, except at the 
great risk of his life. This as we know was a big whop- 
per, but extreme cases have to be met by extreme 


Costly Raiment Nothing but Useless Rags. 537 

measures. ^'The wedding ceremony having to be 
postponed, would the Rev. Jerome Arlington please 
announce this unlooked for sad calamity to the 
guests.'^’ The minister moved with compassion for 
the poor girl. He rested his eyes for a moment on 
Miss Graham, then took a step or two nearer her, but 
she made no sign of response, she stood like one 
turned to stone, her features set, her eyes gazing 
straight at the wall. The Rev. Jerome Arlington, hav- 
ing all the delicacy of a gentleman, combined with the 
elements of a man of God, which possession gives ex- 
quisite finesse to character, said nothing. Feeling that 
silence was the best way of expressing his great pity 
for the stricken woman. This woman who in all her 
life had never known what it was to feel pity for any 
human thing. 

He left the room to perform instead of the happy 
marriage ceremony the unhappy, wretched words, 
which announced the putting off of a long-looked-for 
and brilliant event. Fortunately the bridesmaids had 
all assembled in the large drawing-room, where the 
wedding was to take place. They were all laughing 
and chatting with the groom’s men, which composed 
Raymond Clinton, young Herondon and Freddy 
Faboul, who was quite amusing at times, saying some 
good things in his lazy way. 

When the Rev. Jerome Arlington announced to the 
guests in a voice tremulous with emotion, that on 
account of the sudden illness of the groom, the Count 
Henri de Gascon, the marriage would have to be 
delayed until his recovery. They w^e struck dumb ; 


In the Market Place. 


538 

as omy an assemblage of people can be struck to 
silence on hearing of the unexpected. Although it 
happens every day and hour, yet they are dazed when 
the opposite of what they come to hear and see tran- 
spires. The guests scarcely seemed to breathe, as 
they gazed into each others’ pale faces. It was what 
lay back of the words they heard. For the mind leaps 
away beyond the shock, which leaves the body trans- 
fixed, and the face blank as a mask. To find a solu- 
tion to the something deeper, hidden behind the 
surface of mere cause and effect. 

Scarcely a quarter of an hour had elapsed before 
the Weston Villa was cleared of all its guests but one, 
and he remained in the room with Miss Graham and 
Mrs. Norris. Effie remained standing, she had not 
spoken a word since the Rev. Jerome Arlington left 
o 1 his painful errand. Then being aroused by the 
silence of the house, she turned to Mr. Burroughs 
with a cry, ‘‘Speak now, and be quick. I can bear this 
no longer; be frank with me, tell me the truth, and 
nothing but the truth. I will have nothing else. The 
Count Henri de Gascon is not ill, I had a note from 
him this morning, saying he would be here before ten 
o’clock; he did not say a word about being ill.” Her 
face was deadly white, her eyes sunk back under the 
long lashes, which seemed to dip in their hot burning 
lava of dry tears for moisture, but were scorched 
instead. 

“I am the attorney of the Count in the suit brought 
by him to set aside his father’s will, he claiming an 
equal division of the estate between himself, brother;^ 


Costly Raiment Nothing but Useless Rags. 539 

and sister. I am an old acquaintance of the Leighton 
family. I was summoned at a late hour last night to 
procure bonds — ahem — my dear Miss Graham/’ he 
said, taking a step or two towards her, for he thought 
she was going to faint, but she waved him away and 
cried, ‘^Go on.” ^‘Well, I could not go upon his bond, 
nor could I find any one else, he has first to appear in 
court and have his bond fixed by law. I tried every 
way to have him released long enough to come to 
you and have the ceremony take place, but this I 
could not manage time enough to make it of any avail. 
He will be sure to be liberated in a few days ; it was a 
mistake to arrest and imprison him — ” 

‘‘Prison — prison — ” she screamed, “the Count 
Henri de Gascon in prison.” And all that was sel- 
fish, vain, heartless, and ambitious in her rose to the 
surface and were stamped in the deep drawn lines 
about nose and mouth. “The Count Henri de Gas- 
con in prison,” she repeated, “on what charge ?” 

“My dear Miss Graham, calm yourself, and hear me 
out. It was a little mismanaged business transaction 
on the Count’s part, which has been the cause of all 
this sad affair. The sum necessary could have been 
obtained in a perfectly legitimate way.” 

“A sum of money, you mean; why, money!” she 
cried. “He could have all the money he wanted, 
thousands of dollars, if he had but told me he was in 
trouble. I would rather put my name to my whole 
fortune and let him have the use of it than have this 
shame, disgrace, and humiliation come upon me.” 
She buried her face in her hands. 


540 


In the Market Place. 


dear Miss Graham, be calm, try and bear up 
and hear me out. It was a great mistake on the part 
of my client not to have laid the matter before me. 

I could have kept him out of the difficulty, but the act 
has been committed, and you must be brave, and bear 
up under it. Prove to the world that you can be true 
to a man in his downfall. When the fall was made 
through pride and love of you. You received a few 
days ago,” Mr. Burroughs hesitated a moment, ‘‘a 
beautiful bridal gift from the Count in the form of a 
necklace of rare and costly stones. The Count used 
the name of a prominent merchant on a check drawn 
for five thousand dollars upon the State Bank of 
Commerce, knowing he could pay it in a day or two 
and have the check returned to him. It is not exactly 
a legitimate business-like way, nor is it legal, but 
sometimes it is done by men who are honest enough, 
yet cannot lay their hands upon the sum of money 
required at once, but have plenty to back them. 
Nevertheless, it is a risky thing to do, my dear young 
woman, a risky thing, and it takes a bold man to do it, 
a bold man to defy the law. Unfortunately my client 
has placed himself in this position, and we must do 
the best we can to get him out of it.” 

‘'Do you mean that he forged the name of this man 
for the paltry sum of five thousand dollars ; when the 
sum of a hundred thousand was to be given him by 
my attorney from me as a bridal gift on our wedding 
day. Forged, forged,” she screamed, “this means 
the penitentiary. Another blow, the worst of all, 
added to the shame, disgrace, and grief, already . 


Costly Raiment Nothing but Useless Rags. 541 

heaped upon me/^ She raised her gloved hands laden 
with shining gems, spread out her fingers, and waved 
them in the air, as if brushing something from before 
her eyes. She suffered, she had made others suffer, 
and now she drank gall and worm-wood, : nd there 
was no one by to pity. 

During the last year the Count Henri de Gascon 
was the prop she rested her pride, vanity and ambi- 
tion upon ; the ladder by which she was to climb to 
her goal. Now his name, his proud old family name, 
which was to be the mantle in whose folds she would 
hide forever the taint upon her own was spotted and 
besmirched with crime. Whether intentional or not, 
he had committed a deed to confine him to a felon’s 
cell. She seemed to shrink and shrivel within her 
white robes and grow stooped with the weight of 
years unlived. ‘'Prison, prison,” she gasped, “he does 
not deserve to be sent to prison, we must try and 
keep him from going if possible. Send for my attor- 
ney, he must be somewhere in the house ; and for Mr. 
Mordaunt. and Giles, my agents and trustees. Mr. 
Mordaunt was to give me away.” She tottered to 
the door to go to her rooms, reached out her hand to 
open it, reeled, swayed to and fro, then fell down in a 
dead swoon. 

Mrs. Norris sprang to her aid, so did Mr. Bur- 
roughs, they picked her up and laid her upon her 
aunt’s bed and administered stimulants of the best 
brandy. In a little while she came to. “Leave me,” 
she said, “I wish to be alone awhile.” Mrs. Norris 
and Mr. Burroughs retired to a private room, where 


542 In the Market Place. 

they found her attorney and agents waiting to have 
an interview with her. No one spoke for a few mo- 
ments, until Mrs. Norris said: “There was no use 
for them to wait longer,” as it would be impossible 
for her niece to see any one for two or three days. 

After the room was cleared and she was alone, 
Effie sat up in bed, then she arose and went to the 
mirror and stood before it, for she loved her beauty 
as women of her kind do. She started back, fright- 
ened at the face it showed. “Then this is what it 
means to suffer,” she gasped. She had often won- 
dered at the deep plough-shares made in faces still 
young, but instead of awakening a momentary feeling 
of sympathy, they more often elicited her contempt 
and scorn. She suffered ; yes, she suffered ; she was 
beaten, whipped, scourged, humiliated, struck to the 
earth, as it were. Her affiance lay in a criminal's cell. 
She raised her arms up, wrenched from her head her 
veil with its crown of orange blossoms, and flung 
it on the floor; she tore the pearls from her throat, 
tore them from her arms and wrists ; she ripped the 
long soft gloves from her hands and threw them on 
her veil. Her satin bodice, which took the finest sew- 
ing woman in one of the most fashionable establish- 
ments in the city six weeks to make; so rich was it 
in white jet and lace embroidery ; then she tore off her 
skirt with its yards of costly lace, also her slippers, 
and threw them all in a heap; then went to the bell 
and rang for her maid. “Take them away, Emma,” 
she cried, pointing to the white shimmering bundle, 
when her maid entered the room. “Fetch me a morn- 


Costly Raiment Nothing but Useless Rags. 543 

ing robe, something dark, nothing white, Emma. I 
hate white, Emma. Give me something black, Em- 
ma, black — black — ^ She threw herself upon the bed 
again. 

The French woman did as she was told, not know- 
ing what to say to her young mistress, whom she had 
a genuine liking for, and was now really grieved for 
her in her trouble. She took from Mrs. Norris' ward- 
robe a black India silk morning gown, which was the 
best she could do, and helped her into it, and tucked 
her in the bed and told her to try and rest. Then she 
went to the white pile, the heavy satin robe, covered 
in meshes of foamy lace, that cost what would be a 
fortune to many a poor family ; her bridal veil, with 
its crown of orange blossoms; her white satin slip- 
pers, her lace handkerchief, her fan, which was a work 
of art ; her bouquet, and her ropes of pearls with dia- 
monds almost as big as filberts glistening here and 
there, and clasping the strings together ; all lay in a 
heap. The poor French woman stood aghast, looking 
down upon them with a strange superstitious fear, 
dread, and awe of something like what we have about 
the clothes of the dead. The tears came to her eyes, 
for she felt sorry to the heart for the young lady's 
disappointment and disgrace. She stooped down, 
picked them up, and placed them in a large closet set 
in the room, turned the key in the lock, took the key 
out, and dropped it in her pocket. 

This costly white raiment was nothing now, but a 
useless heap of rags. So dear old Carlyle was in truth 
a great philosopher, when he wrote his ‘‘Sartor Re- 


544 


In the Market Place. 


sartiis,” which proves that man or woman is not 
merely a thing of clothes. But a still greater philo- 
sopher, one greater than all, who said: “Is not the 
life more than the meat or raiment/’ 


CHAPTER IV. 


Wt ARt SUCH STU^]? AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON. 

As Buchanan Reid sings, ‘'The day so mild was 
heaven’s own child,” everywhere was manifest the 
gladness and brightness of the young spring. In 
opening bud and leaf, in skies of mellow blue flecked 
with soft sailing silvery grey clouds ; such as the 
artist Corot wrote of to a friend, when he went on a 
visit to southern France: “Here the skies are so low, 
humid and tender, that they seem to draw me nearer 
to heaven.” It was the evening of a day like this, all 
the country around Mrs. Lowell’s home had donned 
its spring mantle of green gossamer, embroidered in 
lilacs, bridal-wreaths, snow-balls, and violets, which 
wafted their fragrance upon the breezes that soughed 
in gentle murmurs through the great sycamores, 
forest oaks, and maples. Above the heavens were 
radiant, a full moon hung in the cloudless arch of 
deep purplish blue; in the southeast Jupiter rose 
resplendent above the horizon like a luminous jewel. 
The moon flung long rifts of light among the maples 
and cedars, and studded the river with millions of 
sparkling gems, as it wound in and out like a silver 
serpent through the low lands, and its waves lipped 
and lapped musically against the flat shores, 

35 


545 


In the Market Place. 


546 

In a large room on the opposite side of the hall 
with its windows looking east, and out upon a grove 
of trees lay Annette Lefarge dying. She had been 
about six weeks with Mrs. Lowell, and everything 
had been done to make her numbered days on earth 
happy. Cyrus Alvin visited her twice a week, spend- 
ing two or three hours with her and taking tea with 
Mrs. Lowell. Annette told him much about her life 
in these days, that is going into details about herself 
and Charles Leighton, the man she eloped with, the 
man known abroad on the continent of Europe as 
the Count Henri de Gascon. When Annette found 
herself in the home of Gartha she knew that Mrs. 
Lowell was one and the same Miss Rowland, presi- 
dent of the Rowland Institute, where Louise had first 
taken her infant boy. She was sure she was under 
the same roof with her son, as Louise had told her 
when she went to the Institute the second time for 
the child, that the president had taken the boy to rear. 
At first it was thought best by Gartha and Cyrus 
Alvin not to have her see the child, as she was so far 
gone, thinking it would cause her so much unneces- 
sary suffering, and that the little fellow was too young 
to understand any exhibition of grief. But the urgent 
pleading of Mrs. Leighton for one sight of her child 
before she died was granted merely to give her rest 
and piece of mind. It was agreed to by Annette that 
he was to know nothing of the existing relationship 
between them. Gartha promising her that when 
Charley was older and the time came when she 
thought it best to speak to him of his mother, she 


We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made on. 547 

would do so. Annette was alone when Gartha 
brought the boy into the sick room, Louse not being 
permitted to be present. She was sitting up in bed, 
supported by pillows ; at sight of the child she shut 
her eyes, clasped her hands together, and seemed to 
wring them without having the power to move a 
muscle. Then she stretched out her arms to him. 
Gartha lifted him up upon the bed, where he was 
folded close to his mother's breast. Great silent tears 
fell from her eyes like rain and coursed down her 
sunken cheeks. She kissed him again and again, pas- 
sionately kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his mouth, 
wept and kissed him again. The little fellow lay in 
her arms without a word, he felt safe so long as his 
mamma Garta was by. Then Gartha, fearing that 
the agitation might be fatal to the invalid, took the 
child from her, sat down and held him in her lap. 

''Why do ooh cy ?" he said, nestling close to Gartha, 
and looking at the strange woman, strange to him, 
with wondering and questioning face, whose expres- 
sion was full of child pity for the woman who gave 
him birth, who by her own act, snapped asunder the 
right to her maternity, the right to say : "I am your 
mother." "Don’t ooh cy, I loves ooh, I won’t hurt 
ooh. I gives ooh my new box of blocks. I’ll tell 
Tilta to fetch ooh them. And we’ll build ooh a castle. 
Tilta she builds a bouful castle.’’ 

"Oh, my son, my baby boy, this is terrible, my 
heart will break, my sins rise up on all sides to con- 
front me." 

After this yisit Annette shed no more tears, 


In the Market Place. 


548 

seemed reconciled and comforted, and never made 
another request to see her son. One afternoon Gartha 
sat alone with her, she told her how dearly she loved 
Charley. She spoke of her plans for his future, should 
she live to carry them out, and that she intended to 
legally adopt him as her son. ‘‘They that act the part 
of brother, sister, and mother, such is my brother, 
sister, and mother.'’ 

So on this night Annette Lafarge's hours were fast 
passing into the half hours, quarter hours, and min- 
utes. Gartha had been summoned from the room, 
where she lay dying, she lay alone. A shaded lamp 
burned low on a table, which stood in a corner near 
one of the side windows, shedding a soft dim light 
and mingling with the moon beams that came through 
the panes, weaving long threads of spun silver upon 
the floor, and on the chairs and all other objects, and 
dropped a block or two of argent brightness by her 
bedside. 

Annette was not asleep, but she was upon the edge 
of the shore of that borderland, where soul and body 
separate, where the soul reviews the past, and catches 
a glimpse of the world of spirit which it is about to 
enter. She was back again in the bijou flat in the 
apartment house on G street. She was young, strong, 
and beautiful, and little Elsie lay asleep in her crib. 
The past sixteen years was all a dream, a brilliant 
reckless dream ; with its wild, mad passion turned 
to a hideous serpent, which she now had awakened 
from and felt the great and indescribable gladness 
which comes to one who has been op the brink of a 


We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made on. 549 

terrible death, and by some miraculous intervention 
has been snatched from the grave. 

She felt the sense of safety and protection, such as 
the true pure woman and wife feels in a good man's 
love. Oh, yes, she was back again, safe in the dear 
sweet home with Potipher ; dear, quiet, tender, loving 
Potipher, who worked all day at his desk to provide 
comforts and even luxuries for herself and baby Elsie. 
Potipher who worshipped her dark regal beauty, who 
was much older than his years. Strange, she never 
understood his true worth before she lived through 
this dreadful dream. She had looked upon him as 
small, insignificant looking, and ugly; his ten 3 er, 
quiet, silent ways, a rebuke to her frivolity, and the 
vain, ambitious thoughts, which constantly filled her 
mind. She had laughed and ridiculed his love for 
her, and the way he toiled for her and the baby born 
to them. 

It was nearly the dinner hour, he would soon be 
home, she would go to him and throw herself upon 
her knees before him and beg and plead for his for- 
giveness. She would clasp his knees, kiss his hands 
and feet ; she would tell him how dearly she loved 
him, and what a horrible dream she had, and how it 
had shown her his true worth. She never deserved 
his love, but she would try to in the future. Oh, yes, 
she would put her arms about his neck' and draw his 
head upon her bosom ; she would tell him how glad 
and over-joyed she was to feel that she was safe, and 
to hold her fast and save her from herself. 

Then again she stood beside the crib of her baby 


550 


In the Market Place. 


Elsie, her hand in Charles Leighton’s ; he handsome 
as a Greek Apollo, with his fair Saxon hair and feat- 
ures, his blue amorous eyes, looking into hers, as he 
poured in her ear words of wild, hot passion. Plead- 
ing with her to fly with him, as she lingered over her 
sleeping babe ; he swearing to be true until death 
would part them. She felt again all the ardent, mad 
love rise in her bosom for the man, who by subtle 
insidious wiles deadened all the moral responsibilities 
of wife and mother. 

The door of the room opens softly, and 3 dark 
figure enters^ takes k few steps, and stands in the 
middle of the floor. A stray moonbeam falls upon the 
dying woman’s face, showing it white as sculptured 
marble, with her dark hair streaming upon the pillow, 
and laying in waves upon the broad blue veined fore- 
head. The black lashes shading the cheek, the 
patrician nose with its delicate nostril, and the viva- 
cious lips soon to be sealed forever in death. The 
figure steps to the side of the bed, kneels down with 
a low moan, the dying woman stretches out her arms, 
and gropes about the coverlet, until her hands rest 
upon the dark bent head. ‘‘Oh, save me, Potipher; 
save me, dear,” she moans, “save me from myself. 
Dear, I knew it was all a dream, a strange wild, hila- 
rious, brilliant, reckless dream. Oh, I have awak- 
ened from such a bad dream, Potipher; I am so 
glad to know it was but a dream. It took sixteen 
years out of my life, and I am so glad to be back , 
again in the cosy home safe with you and baby Elsie. 
Oh Potipher, forgive me that I ever thought of being 


We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made on. 551 

untrue to you. Oh, dear, I shall be so happy now in 
your love ; oh, so happy to live for you and my baby, 
I love you, dear.’' 

‘"Annette,” said a voice, she knew yet silent to her 
for years, but now came whispering back, as she 
stood upon the shore of eternity, “Annette,” and a 
hand clasped hers, and lifted it up from the coverlet 
and held it in his warm palms. “Annette, do you 
know me ?” He calls her name again, she rallies and 
turns her head and opens her eyes. 

“Who is it ? Who called me ? I know the voice, no 
one ever spoke my name like that but one ; no one ever 
uttered it with such tender intonations, but Potipher 
Gilphin. And it cannot be his voice ; oh, no, impos- 
sible, not now, unless, unless he comes to upbraid me 
for bringing upon the head of his child shame and 
disgrace. But Potipher Gilphin would not come now 
that I am dying ; oh, no, no, it would not be like him.” 
He bends over her and calls Annette again. “Who 
are you ? Come close to me, lift me up so that I may 
see your face.” He places his arm under her shoulders 
and raises her up ; she passes her hand over his face 
down along the right arm until she touches the 
maimed wrist. “Oh, it’s you, dear, oh, Potipher, 
Potipher, forgive me ; ah, I dare not speak it ; I dare 
not call you what you were once to me. But for the 
sake of the vows we pledged at the altar and broken 
so ruthlessly, by me ; yes, madly, blindly, and yet 
ignorantly; oh, forgive me. For the sake of the few 
sweet years of our youth that we spent together and 
the baby El§ie borji to us, forgive me. Lift me up, 


552 In the Market Place. 

dear, and hold me close in your arms, and say you will 
forgive.’’ 

‘‘Annette, there was a time that had you come in 
my presence I would have killed you. There was a 
time and not so long ago, had I met the man who 
betrayed you I would have slain him on sight with as 
little compunction as I wouU a rat. The same power 
which brought you to this quiet, lovely home, this 
holy retreat, the power of God exemplified in the 
beautiful Christian character of the woman, who has 
surrounded your last hours with peace and love, 
brought me here to-night, also. Annette, for nearly 
eight years I waited and watched, thinking he would 
desert you and rather than let yourself go down, I 
thought you might repent and return to me. I did 
not forgive you or forget the wrong you did 
me ; oh, no, no, there was no forgiveness in my 
heart for you, or could we ever be more than 
strangers to each other. But I would have given 
you the shelter of my home, settled income enough 
on you to keep you comfortable all your life. At the 
end of the eight years, seeing you did not return, my 
heart hardened against you ; I felt I could never look 
upon your face again. I feel differently now. I find 
that men set up a standard and code of ethics, dic- 
tated by their passions ; they are at variance with the 
teachings of Him, who claimed to be the light of the 
world. Annette, these are strange words for me to 
utter, strange to my own ears, and to all my past 
mode of thinking. Until a few months ago I was 
cynical, unbelieving, with little faith in anything but 


We Vife Such Stuff as Dreams are Made on. 553 

what I saw with my naked eyes, and scarcely that for 
even sight is deceiving at times. Yes, I forgive you ; 
from my soul, I forgive you, as I hope to be for- 
given.’’ 

'‘Tell me something, dear, of Elsie; has she grown 
much?” she said in low quick gasps. 

"Elsie has grown to be a lovely girl, she has been 
a great comfort to me ; I have lived almost for her, 
she has been the one incentive to all my undertakings 
and also to their achievement.” 

"She does not know of her mother’s sin ?” 

"No; I have guarded it jealously; she has been led 
to believe you died in her infancy.” 

She passed her hand over his face, raised her arm, 
and drew his head down and wound it about his neck. 
"You will not object to kiss me, Potipher ; do not fear 
I am forgiven, I am clean and pure. I have been 
washed whiter than snow, washed in the blood of the 
lamb.” He drew her closer to him. Dressed his lips 
upon her brow and so she died. 

He held her awhile in his arms, then laid her head 
back upon the pillow, smoothed the coverlet over her 
bed, and crossed her hands upon her bosom. Lines 
of grief and great suffering scarred her face, but not 
even death, the destroyer obliterated its beauty. He 
stood looking down upon her ; he, too, had lived over 
the past years in the few short moments. When he 
first met her in her rich dark beauty, her soft south- 
ern speech, and her low rippling laugh that always 
seemed to mock him. The homage he paid her, the 
worship he gave her, then their marriage, and the few 


554 


In the Market Place. 


short years oT wedded life in the pretty apartments in 
G street and the little baby girl born to them. The 
bringing to his home his friend, the rich, handsome 
genial Charles Leighton, whom he loved and trusted. 
The friend, who turned fiend and devil, the betrayer 
of his confidence and peace, the destroyer of his wife. 

And now after sixteen years she had returned to 
die in his arms. Now she lay dead before him. He 
fell upon his knees by the bedside and buried his head 
in the coverlet, his whole body convulsed with sobs 
and groans. When he rose there was no trace of 
tears in his eyes, he had shed none. He passed out 
of the room into the wide hall, turned to his right, and 
knocked lightly on the door of Gartha’s sitting-room, 
which stood partially ajar ; as he did a little boy came 
running out of an adjoining inner room. On observ- 
ing the stranger, he stopped still, resting his slim 
straight figure on his left foot, while he touched the 
heel with the toe of his right. ‘'Who is ooh?’’ he 
asked, after a pause of a moment, crossing his right 
arm over his breast, and clasping his left elbow, he 
scanned the gentleman’s features. Potipher Gilphin, 
whose thoughts were still intent upon the dead, stood 
dazed, stupified, his lips an ashen in hue, at sight of 
the boy, at sight of himself in miniature, even to his 
very gestures ; for the boy stood where the light of a 
large student lamp fell full upon his face. Potipher 
staggered back a few steps and groaned aloud, as he 
cried within himself. “Oh, nature ever strange, old 
as time, yet ever new, thou art, indeed, an avenger 


We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made on. 555 

Oh, Annette, in your sorrow and shame, you did carry 
my image in your breast, for how else could this 
boy, your son, be so marked with my lineaments 

He bent down and picked up the boy in his arms. 
‘'Oh, my son, my son,’’ he said, brushing back the 
hair from the child’s forehead, and pressing the little 
fellow’s cheek to his. And for the first time since a 
lad twelve years old, when he stood over his dead 
mother’s coffin, Potipher’s eyes were blinded by hot 
scalding tears. The likeness of the child to himself 
was the stroke that shattered to pieces the crust 
which had grown hard about his heart since liis wife’s 
flight. Men never weep when the heart is incased in 
adamant. “Oh, my son,” and he thought of the boy’s 
dead mother lying in the next room, “I am your 
father and guardian from this night hence.” He 
crossed to the opposite side of the room and seated 
himself with the boy on his knee. When Gartha en- 
tered, he rose, bowed reverently, “It is all over, An- 
nette has passed away.” There was not a trace of 
moisture in his eyes. 

“She knew you?” 

“She knew my voice when I called her name; she 
died with her head resting on my shoulder. I thank 
you for leading me to this. If it were not for you I 
should have gone down to my grave with the rancor 
of a misanthrope in my breast, a mere money 
grubber, never knowing or learning its value in its 
true sense, or how to use it best to benefit others.” 

She looked up and smiled the sweet smile of a 


In the Market Place. 


556 

woman, unconscious of sex in the meaning of the 
senses. “Yes,'' she replied, “those who have been 
awakened from the sleep of indifference to look to 
God learn that His way, and not our way, nor the 
world's way, gives rest and peace, and that there is 
no lasting happiness only in doing His will. Be 
seated," she said, for he had remained standing 
with the child in his arms. She rolled a chair up 
near to his and seated herself, then called to Talitha 
to go and tell Fanny, the boy's nurse, to come and 
take him, that it was long after his bedtime. After 
Fanny had taken the children, Gartha and Potipher 
sat for an hour or two talking of the dead Annette 
and her little son and of the arrangements for Her 
funeral. 

The second day following her death, at the restful 
golden hour of sunset, they laid Annette Lefarge to 
sleep in the cemetery surrounding the little Presby- 
terian church under the shade of the drooping wil- 
lows in the pretty lot purchased by Potipher. Dr. 
Hopkins and Cyrus Alvin officiating at the funeral 
service. Birds carolled sweetly to their mates, soft 
breezes wafted perfumes, and nature was young and 
fair, and full of color, bloom and living life. And thus 
God speaks, there is no death, it is but throwing off 
the old covering for the new. 

Long after the others had left the cemetery her old 
black servant was seen kneeling in a crouched posi- 
tion at the foot of her grave with her turbaned head 
buried in her hands. Her dear young mistis, her 


We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made on. 557 

dea Miss Annette, de baby she held in her own 
arms when she, too, was young and strong, was gone 
forever, she would never see her face again, until as 
she herself said, under her breath, ‘'Until de resur- 
rection monin, but she had de chile, de dea chile lef/’ 


CHAPTER V. 


OH, r^AIR I.ADY, I AM BUT A MERCHANT MAN. 

Thi^ daily newspapers were quite lenient in their 
treatment of the wretched denoument of the mar- 
riage which was to be, and was not. The case of the 
Count Henri de Gascon was given to the public, with 
a sentiment born of the ruling passion to which the 
daily press is no exception. He was likened to a 
hungry man, with food, food, all about him, and 
within his reach, but by some fatality had not the 
power to touch it. He had money, money, all around 
and about him, and back of him, but could not lay his 
hands upon it when he most needed it. 

A week went by and the Count still lingered in 
prison. Miss Graham sent her attorney to the bank 
to offer to pay double the sum if they would release 
him and hush the matter up. His younger brother 
dispatched to his and his sister’s attorney, and the 
trustees of their father’s estate, to leave nothing un^ 
done that money could do to save his brother from 
going to prison. But the president and officers of 
the bank refused to listen; they would be governed 
entirely by Mr. Gilphin. Charles Leighton was a 
forger, he had acknowledged to using Potipher 
Gilphin’s name on a check for the sum of five thou- 
558 


Oh, Fair Lady, I am but a Merchant Man. 559 

sand dollars on the state bank of commerce, which 
sum was paid over to him. The president and board 
could not think of releasing him on bonds until fur- 
ther consideration. It would be a menace to busi- 
ness, to the public safety, to the morals of the com- 
munity; and a bad example to young men, to treat 
crime and criminals in such a loose manner. It was 
true he was known to be the oldest son of Charles 
Leighton, deceased, one of the wealthiest merchants 
in the city. Who died leaving an estate worth two 
millions of dollars to his two youngest children, and 
cutting of¥ the oldest son, Charles Leighton, Jr., with 
but a dollar. There must have been something of 
the scapegrace about him, or his father would not 
have disinherited him. So the president of the bank 
of commerce argued. Potipher Gilphin was not in 
town anyway, and there could be nothing done until 
he returned. 

At the close of two weeks Potipher Gilphin was 
seen in his office and therefore beseiged by an army 
of attorneys, which swarm like bees in a honey hive, 
wherever there is a money hive. But to all their 
offers and arguments he was silent and taciturn. He 
told them he had been away, he had been with death, 
and he had given the matter no thought, he had heard 
nothing of the particulars until a few days before his 
return to town; he would see the president of the 
bank and have a talk with him. That same afternoon 
he spent three hours with the president and board of 
officials, Mr. Gilphin himself being one of the largest 
stockholders. 


In the Market Place. 


560 

The night before Potipher left for the city he had a 
long talk with Gartha about Charles Leighton. Both 
had read the full review given in the press of the 
event, and the wedding which was to be the great 
social affair of the season. Mr. Gilphin had informed 
Gartha that Charles Leighton was soon to marry a 
rich heiress, and that he was known to his fiancee 
and the society in which he moved as the Count Henri 
de Gascon. In the last few years Mrs. Lowell had 
heard now and then of Miss Graham, the heiress, and 
latterly of her beauty and social triumphs. She did 
not pay much attention to the doings of the gay upper 
social world, but when Potipher handed her the papers 
which contained the full account of the wedding to 
be, and was not, and the arrest for forgery of Charles 
Leighton, the Count Henri de Gascon, she put the 
papers aside until a more convenient time when she 
could read them through without being disturbed. 
Later in the day she was in her sitting-room alone, 
and thinking of the papers, she went to her desk, took 
them out and read them till the end. When she 
finished she put the papers back in her desk, went to 
her bed-room, closed the door and locked it and knelt 
down before the table with the black wooden crucifix, 
and prayed long and fervently. When she rose from 
her knees she was deathly pale, her cheeks wet with 
the tears that came hot and burning from her eyes, 
that dipped them up from the well of her heart. 

That same evening she had her long talk with 
Potipher in the library. He was seated near the 
table, she reclined opposite him. A large silver 


Oh, Fair Lady, I am but a Merchant Man. 561 

student lamp stood in its center between them, throw- 
ing his face into shadow, while he had a full view of 
hers. 

''Then you do not think that he has been led to 
this crime to receive the punishment he justly de- 
serves he said after she had been pleading with him 
some time. 

"Yes, he was led to commit the crime ; crime natur- 
ally follows crime ; he could not escape it.’^ 

"Yet you ask me not to prosecute him, and if it is 
in my power to save him from going to state’s prison, 
to use it. The request is beyond me ; it is not in 
human nature to comply with it. This man was the 
friend of my youth ; I loved him ; he was treacherous 
to that love and friendship ; false to the trust reposed 
in him. He stole my wife, made desolate my home, 
blighted the years of my young manhood, and left my 
little daughter motherless, with shame resting on her 
innocent head. Then when passion is satiated, he 
throws her aside and left her to die in poverty, or go 
down lower and lower, until she found a bed in the 
slums. My time has come, Charles Leighton must 
pay the penalty of his dissolute life, and his crime. 
Heaven has ordained that Annette Lefarge be 
avenged. Years ago I spared him, but now fate or 
something higher has thrown him back in my hands, 
to deal with him accordingly.” 

"If Annette were here; if her spirit could speak, 
she would say forgive. She has been forgiven. You 
would not be happy to send Charles Leighton to 
prison, knowing he was serving a sentence in the 
36 


In the Market Place. 


562 


penitentiary, when you could prevent it. It would 
disturb your peace of mind, for the heart which has 
once been awakened by the teaching of the divine 
Master, and touched by His love, can find no rest in 
punishing an enemy. He gave you the grace to for- 
give Annette, He will give you the power to forgive 
Charles Leighton. This man, while he has no claim 
to the name of father, yet his blood runs in the child’s 
veins. We both love the orphan boy ; in the years to 
come he will repay you with a son’s devoted love, 
when he learns the history of his parents, and that you 
saved his father from going to prison, for a crime 
committed against yourself and the state.” As she 
spoke the color left her cheek, her eye-lids drooped, 
and tears glistened upon their long dark lashes, while 
the delicate nostril quivered with pain. 

His glance rested a moment upon her face; what 
a wonderful face it was he thought. Sorrow had 
enobled it ; intellect had chiseled its features, spiritual- 
ity refined them, and stamped them with eternal life, 
and the Master hand touched them with the glow, 
% warmth and color of health. 

‘‘You ask too much,” he said hoarsely, shading his 
eyes with his hand, “I have not reached your heights ; 
the mountain upon which you stand, I would fain 
climb, but it seems inaccessible to me.” 

She looked away from him a moment, then rose 
went into the hall and called Fanny. When Fanny 
answered she asked if Charley and Talitha had gone 
to bed. When Fanny told her they were sound asleep 


Oh, Fair Lady, I am but a Merchant Man. 563 

she returned to -the library, closed the door, came 
back and resumed her seat. 

‘‘Mr. Gilphin,’’ she said softly, “one of the most 
inexplicable things in life is the thread which weaves 
our destinies ; we neither take it up or lay it down, 
but it goes on weaving. A higher hand than ours 
fills the shuttle, and turns the wheel. Charles Leigh- 
ton came into your home in the first sweet wedded 
years and offered the poison cup of passion to your 
young wife ; she drank and fled with him, leaving be- 
hind the blighted fruit of her act. Effie Graham, the 
woman he was to marry a few days ago, came into my 
home over four years since ; she brought poison with 
her, and love withered and died.’’ 

Potipher’s hand dropped from his face, he turned 
quickly in his seat and his eyes, which shot out fiery 
sparks from under the dark lowering brows, sought 
hers, but she looked away and continued, “Listen to 
a short story, I shall be brief, giving you just the out- 
lines.’’ She sketched her life from the time her 
mother died, after that the ideal home at Tanglewood 
with the Lawries, up to the evening Nelson Lawrie 
introduced the young artist, Arthur Lowell. “Had 
he been Apollo with his bow and arrow dropped from 
the clouds, I could not have been more pleased,” she 
said, “for he looked every inch a young Greek god. 
He seemed to be all that I, as a girl, had ever imag- 
ined. It was love at first sight. 

“After we were married, my husband took me to a 
beautiful cottage near Tanglewood. In a month we 


In the Market Place. 


564 

went to Europe, returning in the fall after a three- 
months’ sojourn. Then we settled down in our 
lovely little home on the hill ; but as the weeks and 
months went by, we were not happy; our disposi- 
tions were not compatible. Little by little, my 
Apollo showed a cold overbearing nature; he was 
tyrannical, mechanical and despotic. With his hand 
ever raised against me to crush my aims, aspirations, 
and all that was ideal, out of my life if it did not 
happen to come within his approbation. It seemed 
to me he tried to turn back the springs of my heart, 
so they might run dry; to crush it, wither it. He 
was an egotist of the first water, he loved only self, 
and that better than any other human thing. He was 
unrelenting to any one who would not worship at 
his shrine.” 

She related to him the story of the summer after- 
noon when her husband first brought Effie to their 
home, and all the happenings during the year of the 
girl’s stay under her roof, up to the evening of the 
day she found the sketch of her face in Nelson 
Lawrie’s sketch book, when she decided that either 
she or Effie must leave, and she did not choose to 
give up her home to any woman of Effie’s stamp. 
She gave Potipher the full details of that awful night, 
of her seeing the girl in her husband’s arms, her head 
laid upon his shoulder, and the cruel words that 
reached her ear, ‘T am master in my own house, 
you will stay as long as I see fit to have you.” I 
had all my life lived in the realm of the ideal, it 
was my inheritance. I set my husband upon a high 


Oh, Fair Lady, I am but a Merchant Man. 565 

pedestal to worship ; I thought him a man of honor, 
truth and possessing every noble attribute. My 
dream of home was beauty, where the angel of peace 
was ever to abide, and where prayer was offered as 
a daily incense upon the family altar. But those hate- 
ful words, coming from the man I loved, the man I 
called my husband, to the woman he had made an 
instrument of to humble me, to beat down my pride, 
which I used as a shield for self-respect. It dispelled 
all my dreams, my ideals ; they fell shattered in the 
dust before the sound of his cruel speech. The blow 
Ihey struck me was terrible. Shakespeare's Hermione, 
accused of unchastity by her husband, and condemned 
to death, could not have suffered more. I was 
crushed, beaten, thrown back upon what? My own 
helplessness. ‘'Oh, God be pitiful to us, when the 
creature whom we love, and set upon a pedestal to 
worship, we find they are but common clay, a mere 
delft image, stuffed with rags." She arose, walked 
to the door that led into the hall, came back and stood 
before Potipher, who shuddered and shaded his face 
with his hand. 

“Everything grew black before me," she began, her 
cheek white as the lace at her throat, and her large 
grey eyes, looking dark as sloes as they glowed and 
flashed with the painful memories of that awful night, 
and a love which was now but a vanished dream. ‘T 
tottered back to the house and to my room, groped 
about for a match until I found one, lighted a lamp, 
went to my ward-robe." She told him of the tearing 
up of all her clothes, which has been already related 


In the Market Place. 


566 

in the second book. ''Then I left my home forever, 
I wandered about for hours, not knowing where to 
go, or where I was. A dense darkness had fallen 
upon me, my brain seemed clouded; I was dazed, 
stunned, crazed. It is in moments like these, when 
struck by the hand we love, that the soul recoils, sick- 
ens, and sends forth a great wail which turns back 
unanswered, unless we have the^grace to seek God. 
But I did not then have His grace, to seek a friend 
or God seemed mockery to me; I cared only to be 
alone. Like some poor hunted, wounded, dumb 
animal, I wished to hide myself and my grief away 
from prying eyes and human sympathy. 

About daybreak I found myself at Tanglewood 
sitting upon the steps of the porch. All the dogs 
knew me, old Blucher, Peter Lawrie’s mastiff, and a 
great pet of Nelson’s, came and licked my hand, laid 
down at my feet and began to whine ; his dog instinct 
knew I was in trouble. The next thing I knew, 
Mrs. Lawrie, my second mother, came and led me 
into the house. After a couple of months I began to 
look about me for something to do. Work is God’s 
solace for the grief-stricken mind. The Maples here, 
my mother’s cottage, the lease had just expired. The 
man wanted to renew it, but I had other plans, I 
wished to live in it myself. I sold three acres of the 
seven, took the money and remodeled my home, and 
brought Charley and Talitha from the Institute to 
rear as my own children. Arthur Lowell and I have 
had no divorce. He has never applied for one to my 
knowledge, nor have I. Now, Mr. Gilphin,” she 


Oh, Fair Lady, I am but a Merchant Man. 567 

touched his arm lightly, 'Vill you forgive Charles 
Leighton, I have long ago forgiven Effie Graham.” 
He rose from his chair, walked to the window, stood 
a moment, then came back. ‘'Is not this expose of 
Charles Leighton and his crime just retribution upon 
him and his bride to be ? They have acted base and 
treacherous in all the relations of life.” 

“Yes, in a sense,” she answered, seating herself 
and resting one elbow on the table and her head upon 
her hand. “Why should they not suffer ? Why 
should the good always suffer, while the wicked go 
free? Are we not apt to make criminals by encour- 
aging a mawkish sentiment of pardon and forgive- 
ness for men and women of the Effie Graham and 
Charles Leighton sort? Every boy and girl should 
be taught the awfulness of crime and its consequences, 
and to commit crime they must pay the penalty. 

“Yes, it should be the part of their education that 
should never be neglected. If we sin, we must expect 
to suffer. Do you suppose Effie Graham has not 
suffered, and will suffer ? When the individual whose 
compound is made up of selfishness, heartlessness, 
vanity, pride and base ambition, receives a blow which 
fells it to the dust, its suffering is poignant, its 
humiliation unspeakable. It writhes like a worm 
under the shaft that crushes, and the shots that sting 
and wound to the core. But the road to happiness 
is in forgiveness, leaving them to be dealt with by a 
higher tribunal. I have never raised a finger to lay 
a straw in Effie Graham’s way, yet she has met her 
punishment, so has Charles Leighton. He is in your 


In the Market Place. 


568 

power, now is your opportunity to be merciful ; now 
is the moment to rise to the occasion; pray for 
strength and it will be given you/’ 

He stood a little distance from the table, the light 
from the silver student lamp fell upon her beautiful 
head, giving a mellow richness to her golden-brown 
hair, as she rested her cheek upon her palm. The lace 
of her black sleeve was turned away from the curved 
wrist, showing the slender tapering hand. 

“You astonish me,” he murmured, “I fear I can 
never climb to your heights ; you will have to teach 
me and help me.” 

“Ask God to help you. Pray and He will give you 
strength,” she replied, rising. 

“Dear lady,” he said, rising also, “my school has 
been the material world. I am but a trader in its 
wares, a merchantman in its commerce. I know noth- 
ing of the world you live in ; let me be your pupil, let 
me sit at your feet while you teach me the way to the 
door of this haven, so that I, too, may enter in. Oh, 
fair and beautiful lady, I will then exclaim with Peter 
the Apostle, when he said, ‘Master, Lord, it is good 
to be here.’ ” He bowed low, left the library, went into 
the hall, took his hat from the rack where he had 
hung it, not meaning to stay but a few moments when 
he first came in. She saw him to the door ; the hour 
was late ; he did not go to the hotel but a few blocks 
away, but took a midnight electric car for the city. 


CHAPTER VI. 


he: brushe^d his hand across his brow to 
SHUT OUT the: vision. 

Teie: weeks had passed to three, since the fiasco of 
the wedding to be and was not, and still Charles 
Leighton lingered in prison. It is evening, the hour 
when the shops, factories, offices and the great mer- 
cantile houses of the city empty their human bee-hives 
of industry upon the streets. The crowds hurry to 
and fro, hither and thither, like so many human 
ghosts on their way to their abiding places ; their 
ranks being constantly filled by other ghosts on the 
same errand. The spring twilight lingers long in the 
horizon, in the blue vistas of lanes and road sides, 
loth to let the shadows have their way. The streets 
running from the square, on which stands the big city 
hall and four courts, built for the imprisonment of 
human ghosts, or for what was once human in man 
or woman. Although built after the best models of 
the time, with wings and gables, turrets and towers, 
looming up in the violet gray mist of the dusk ; here 
and there a man or woman may turn to look at the 
great pile, but with all its pretentions to fine architec- 
ture the eyes of the passerby instinctively look in the 
ether direction. The hour advances, the electric 

569 


570 


In the Market Place. 


lamps flash out their lights dispelling the dim dreamy 
phantasies of the twilight, and the whole city is 
illuminated. 

Four high swinging lamps center their cold white 
flame upon the great prison house, and into its iron- 
barred windows. In a cell in a long stone corridor 
of the third floor and near a small heavily iron-grated 
window, which receives the light from a window 
opposite in the corridor, is seated Charles Leighton, 
the quasi-clerk and soi-distant nobleman. He wore a 
long dressing gown made of some rich brocaded 
fabric, the color a dark red with trimmings of black 
velvet; his feet in slippers, his vest unbuttoned, his 
blonde hair tumbled, and in general dishabille. He 
sat with his arms folded over his chest, a lighted 
cigar between his fore-finger and thumb which he 
every little while raised to his lips, and puffed long 
stems of curling smoke from, then folded his arms 
again. Charles Leighton had kept the same position 
since the sun began to droop low in the west, and the 
day waned, and night let fall her curtain of mist. 
Once he rose to fetch his box of cigars and matches 
from a bench in the opposite" corner of his cell, and 
laid them on the broad sill of the window and resumed 
his seat again. 

His whole past came up before him and held 
him to his chair with a strange fascination, as 
scene after scene crowded one upon another. He 
thought he could abandon the old ways and habits, 
cast them aside as he would an old worn hat, but, 
like the hat, there were marks and stains left by long 


He Brushed His Hand Across His Brow. 571 

usage which can not be effaced. And at the time 
when he was on the very eve of a new future, a future 
which meant home, wife, wealth and position, they 
were snatched from him, and he found himself in a 
felon’s cell. Why did he commit the crime that sent 
him to prison? Ah, why? If men on the verge of 
doing some dark deed, would but stop to reason about 
it we would have no criminals. He did not consider 
his act a crime (few do), he never meant to commit 
a felony. He was a gentleman, his associates had all 
been gentlemen of the highest class, both in Europe 
and in his own country, and he was looked upon by 
them as a man of honor. 

But he was so used to having things his own way, 
indeed the trend of his whole past was in making 
things subservient to his wishes and will. The 
gratifying of his appetites and desires ; and when cer- 
tain appetites and desires ceased to satisfy, and began 
to pall upon him, he began the hunt for others that 
were more pleasing and advantageous. Not to be 
able to present his affiance with a costly wedding gift, 
when there was so much money back of him and in 
the future, was not to be brooked, when there were 
quicker methods of obtaining the sum desired, and 
not be found out until he could return the money to 
the bank. It was the ego in him, the vanity, and 
amorprop, which is strong in most men and women, 
and the desire to appear to others what they are not, 
which blinded him to commit the deed. 

Outside upon the pavement foot-falls grow fainter 
and fainter and fewer ; the clitter clatter, rumble and 


In the Market Place. 


572 

noise of the great city rise and fall, soften and blend 
into a sort of harmony. The light from the grated 
window in the stone corridor falls upon his pale face, 
as he listens to every step. Who will come to deliver 
him from his hated pen? Who will give him his 
liberty? Why do they detain him so long a prisoner? 
Every little while he starts, unfolds his arms and 
turns from the grating and looks about his cell. 
There are corners where the dim light from the cor- 
ridors do not penetrate, but leaves the shadows 
darker ; the ghosts of the past crowd about him and 
will not be pushed aside. In the twenty years of his 
frittered youth he had been guilty of many follies ; 
deeds which to-night paled his cheek as they rose 
from their grave, where he supposed he had buried 
them forever. They showed themselves now stripped 
of all sophistries that men like him clothe them in, 
naked, base, cruel. 

What was that? He could have sworn it was the 
face of Annette Lefarge, so changed, so worn, so 
pitiful, sad and gentle. She never in life looked like 
that. What had become of the old colored woman, 
her maid? She never came back to see him as she 
promised. Could it be possible that she had told him 
lies, and that her mistress was really in the city wait- 
ing for the opportune moment in which to strike her 
blow. Well, if he had married, she could have been 
easily silenced by money, he told himself. But he 
could not believe she had followed him to America. 
Annette was no ordinary woman, and she would not 
for an hour brook poverty. The Count de Noailles 


He Brushed His Hand Across His Brow. 573 

was madly in love with her, when she became con- 
vinced he had gone to his own country, never to 
return to her, she might have taken up her residence 
in one of the marquis’ houses. What is that? He 
brushes his hand across his brow to shut out the 
vision. ‘'Heavens, it is the face of Annette, so altered ; 
her eyes never in life sought mine with such an ex- 
pression, as if they were drawing the heart out of 
my breast. Oh, God be pitiful to me,” he cried, 
rising, “I am a wretched man.” He tottered up and 
down the floor of his cell for a few seconds, then went 
and seated himself again upon the bench and gazed 
out of the bars. Then he heard footsteps upon the 
stone-paved corridor ; he saw the jailer coming with 
a small lantern. What was he going to do with 
the lantern ? He rose up and began to pace 
again up and down his cell; he heard the lock click 
back in the wire door, but it seemed far away from 
him. He saw the door open and the jailer enter and 
lay the lantern down upon the flag stone of his cell. 
He turned round to speak a few words, wondering 
at him leaving his lantern in such a place ; but instead 
of the jailer, there stood before him Potipher Gilphin. 

He brushed his hand across his forehead, tottered 
back a few steps and clutched at the iron bars for 
support ; then gathering all his strength, he threw 
back his head, and with a pale haggard face, he 
flashed one glance of hate at the man, whose triumph 
to-night, he felt, was complete. The little lantern 
flickered out dim, dusky rays of pale yellow over the 
cage, making the two men look like spectres that had 


574 


In the Market Place, 


crossed the long bridge of years to confront each 
other. 

Potipher Gilphin stood with hat in hand, his right 
arm folded over his breast, his hand clasping the el- 
bow of the maimed left arm, his black brows lowering 
until they met above the deep grey-blue eyes, which 
seemed changed to small glistening beams of light- 
ning shooting out from beneath dark thunder clouds. 
His face was cold, hard and had that peculiar pallor 
which we see in a man or woman when passing 
through the great conflict of their lives, when they 
stand face to face with the object whose hand has 
thrust the dagger into their breast and left it there 
to bleed ; over deceit, treachery, broken vows, a 
blighted home, a dishonored wife, and shame brand- 
ing the brow of innocent children. All these 
memories crowded thick and fast through Potipher's 
mind, until it seemed but yesterday eve since he came 
home to his apartments and found Annette, his wife, 
flown, and little Elsie, his infant daughter, asleep in 
her crib. As he looked at the man who made dark 
the years of his prime, he forgot Gartha’s teachings 
and all their influence of the last seven months, and, 
for a moment, he could have raised his arm and 
smote Charles Leighton to the flag-stones dead, if but 
to avenge Annette. But he beat back his emotion, as 
he again heard the words, 'Tray and strength will be 
given you.’’ 

"Charles Leighton,” he said, his voice low, quiet, 
but distinct, his slight well-knit frame seemingly to 
expand and take upon it added height, "this cell is a 


He Brushed His Hand Across His Brow. 575 

strange place for you and I to meet for the first time 
after sixteen years. Charles Leighton, what have you 
done with these years? What have you done with 
the time since you stood with me behind the counter 
in your uncle’s great commercial house of Dampsons 
& Co.’s ? You, his handsome, elegant, nephew, son of 
Charles Leighton, the retired merchant millionaire. 
You played then at being clerk, and I was charged 
to drill you in all the intricacies of becoming a good 
shopman. I admired you then, Charles Leighton, for 
your beauty of face and manly bearing; I loved you 
for your genial frank ways, as I supposed; your 
friendliness, gracious manners, and what I took to be 
kindliness of heart. Both were young then, but I 
was small, homely, insignificant looking and poor, 
with my way to make in the world. But, like Uriah, 
whom David the king had placed in front of the battle 
to be slain, I had instead of one little ewe lamb, I had 
two ; a beautiful young wife and child. Charles 
Leighton, I brought you to my home, — well, we will 
let that go by, but there was a time, and for years, 
had you run across my path,” he took a step or two 
nearer to him, ''I would have found strength in this 
one arm to have v/rung your neck with as little effort 
as a Newfoundland dog crunches the back bone of a 
cat ; thrown your carcass into the gutter and kicked it 
after it fell, and the world of men would have ap- 
plauded. But that, too, is passed ; times change, 
situations change, and so do individuals, if they grow. 
But what have you done with the years which have 
gone since last you and I exchanged friendly greet- 


In the Market Place. 


576 

ings? Have you flung away wealth, position and 
opportunities, which, had you used them, would have 
led to the highest eminence among your fellow men. 
But you bartered them for the cup of sensual pleas- 
ure that you quaffed to the very dregs. I am here to- 
night, Charles Leighton, to demand of you an account 
of a few of those years. Charles Leighton, what have 
you done wdth Annette Lefarge?’’ 

Charles Leighton stood with head erect, his broad 
shoulders thrown back ; he was deadly pale, and his 
eyes flashed out all the hate and rage which he 
cherished against the man who stood before him. 
The man whose friendship he had betrayed, whose 
home he had wrecked, whose wife he had stolen, and 
now, by some inconceivable web of fate, he was 
thrown in his power. Thus the saying of a great 
novelist is true, '‘That we hate most those we have 
most injured.’’ Yes, the hate he felt to this man was 
now like drinking gall and wormwood, for he could 
send him to prison for the rest of his days, and to die 
in a felon’s cell. He shivered at the thought. The 
Count Henri de Gascon, who all his life had been 
used to luxuries, soft cushions, low divans, pillows 
of down, and dawdling in ladies’ boudoirs. "Annette 
Lefarge, umph,” he said with a sneer, assuming some 
of his old insolence, "she threw me aside long ago, 
with as little regret, presumably, as she did yourself. 
She left me for a rich peer of France.” 

"Hold !” cried Potipher Gilphin, with the same gray 
pallor overspreading his face as when he first entered 
the cell, "you will not add falsehod and cowardice 


He Brushed H is Hand Across His Brow, 577 

to the rest of the crimes you have stained your soul 
with, to strike down the helpless woman with whom 
you spent nearly half your life. You left Annette 
Lefarge in Paris without so much as a sou to buy 
bread with; you promised to return to her in a few 
weeks; she waited for you in her handsome apart- 
ments, but the days and weeks went by into months 
and you did not return. She was in poor health, she 
got into debt and was forced to sell everything, even 
her clothing and jewels, to pay expenses and get 
money enough to make the journey to her own 
country and to reach her own city. Here she suf- 
fered from the most abject poverty, and if it had not 
been for her old negro maid, she would have died in 
an attic, in a miserable alley, of starvation. She was 
found there ill with consumption by an eminent Chris- 
tian minister, who sent a lovely Christian woman to 
her rescue, and she brought her to her own home. 
Charles Leighton, Annette Lefarge died with her 
head resting on my shoulder, asking my forgiveness, 
and receiving it.’’ 

‘‘Annette Lefarge dead !” he cried, running his hand 
through his hair, his eyes seemingly to leap from his 
head, as he clutched at the back of an old chair the 
jailor had given him to sit on. Then he flung it from 
him, picked it up and clutched at its back again, 
turned and looked at the iron bars of his cell ; he felt 
he could wrench them apart with as little effort as it 
would take to break to pieces the old wooden chair 
he held to. He looked at the small round grated win- 
dow ; he could, with one blow, shatter it and jump to 
37 


578 


In the Market Place. 


the street and make his way to the Weston Villa. 
Annette was dead, — dead — dead — and he was free. 
He had nothing now to fear, once in the Weston Villa 
he would throw himself upon his knees to Effie, ask 
her pardon ; he was sure she loved him some. She 
would fly with him ; they could hide far, far away in 
the large cities of Europe ; she was rich, she would 
pay double the sum to the bank if necessary, should 
his brother fail him. He knew his countrymen well, 
they would hardly take the trouble to molest him 
when the money was paid. Annette was dead, and he 
was free ; the past, with her, was buried in the grave 
with her. He had feared her, feared that she would 
come upon him in moments most inopportune ; in 
crossing a street, or turning a corner he might meet 
her face to face, and, in her just wrath, expose him 
or strike him to' the earth dead. He had dreaded her 
with a dread that was terrible. She might make her 
appearance on his wedding day and make a scene 
before his bride and the social world that would have 
blasted all his prospects. She had been the night- 
mare of his sleep, the ghost which haunted his waking 
moments. And now she was dead and he was free, 
and Effie would never hear of his life with her. He 
turned his head and flashed a glance of burning hate 
at Potipher. He knew that with one blow of his 
strong arm he could fell him senseless to the stone 
floor, open the iron door and make his way to the 
street. Ah, but there were the guards in the cor- 
ridors with pistols in hand ; to attempt such a thing 
would be death. He steadied himself a moment, put 


He Brushed His Hand Across His Brow. 579 

his hand to his brow, and brushed back the hair 
his forehead, stepped forward a pace or two, r 
over and clutched the back of the chair for sir 
He was a prisoner, all was lost, when he might have 
been free. Oh, what had tempted him; what had 
blinded him to commit forgery?? He had done such 
bold, daring, unscrupulous things all his fast life and 
had come out on top, that he feared nothing. He had 
found Potipher’s signature on some old letters in 
Annette’s possession ; they were written her by Poti- 
pher a little while before their marriage, while 
Potipher was away on a short journey. They, by 
some chance, had got mixed up with his papers, and, 
hearing everywhere that Potipher Gilphin had grown 
rich and had money piled up in the bank, he used his 
name, but for a few days only, as he supposed. And 
now this hateful, miserable, ugly, insignificant, 
money-making, money-grubbing American had come 
to taunt him of his past and gratify his revenge. He 
had fallen into the power of the very man, above all 
others, he could least expect mercy from. Oh, a 
felon’s cell was his doom. He shivered as his fastidi- 
ous eye glanced hurriedly about his cage, with its 
walls black with soot and grime. Rats and mice com- 
ing and going, thick as troopers in a barracks. The 
dim yellow flame of the lantern flickering and throw- 
ing long, dark, gruesome shadows over the stone 
floor, and seemed to clasp hands with the darker 
shadows that lurked in its corners, as if they were 
the ghosts of the prisoners that came and went for 
years. His shoulders drooped, his body swayed to 


In the Market Place. 


580 

and fro, his head fell forward on his breast, and he 
groaned aloud. After some moments he said : 

‘‘I thought Annette Lefarge was still in France. 
I left her in Paris, all my money was spent; my 
father died disinheriting me, cutting me off with but 
a dollar. When I left Paris I meant to return again, 
but the delay in the courts kept me here month after 
month. For some time before I left Paris, Annette 
and myself had become somewhat estranged, and we 
had many times in the last three or four years agreed 
to part. The Marquise de Noailles, a wealthy noble- 
man, was madly in love with her, and had been for 
several years. Being a woman of the world, beautiful 
and accomplished, possessing many gifts, I thought 
she would not allow herself to want for money when 
there were those ready to provide her with an estab- 
lishment, and all the luxuries of her former mode of 
living. Besides, it would have been impossible for us 
ever again to renew our past connection.’’ He kept 
his eyes on the floor, and his voice, as he spoke, was 
low and husky. 

Potipher Gilphin stood with fierce, lowering con- 
tracted brows, their blackness a contrast to the tallow 
pallor of his face, and the set, stern features. As the 
Count spoke there came a stifled cry of pain from his 
heart, as he looked upon the man before him, fallen 
so low that he would resort to petty falsehood to 
blast the woman he had ruined to exonerate himself. 
That, after living thirteen years with her, he would 
calmly desert her and in cold blood see her find 
shelter in another man’s illicit love. That there is 


He Brushed His Hand Across His Brow. 581 

no standing still; that we must either go down or 
up ; that we must either grow higher or degenerate, is 
the very philosophy of our being; the very law of 
life. Charles Leighton had gone on in his sinful 
career until all moral sensibilities became deadened, 
and the fine sense of honor which is the golden key 
to all that is best and highest in nature was in him 
drugged and opiated until it slept from the poisonous 
potion. 

^'Charles Leighton,’’ said Potipher, ‘'I have not 
come here to preach a sermon upon your past, or to 
seek revenge for the wrong you did me. I did not at 
first intend to come personally, but to send my attor- 
ney to inform you of my intention and the course I 
wished to pursue in this matter between you and 
myself, but I changed my mind. The past is dead, 
we will bury it, it is best to put dead things out of 
sight. I have come to tell you that neither myself 
nor the Bank of Commerce officials will prosecute 
you. When you pay the sum of five thousand dollars 
to the bank I shall sign a paper for ‘your attorney 
releasing you from prosecution so far as I myself and 
the officials of the bank are concerned. The state 
can use its own discretion in the matter. I cannot 
help you there. To-morrow the court will fix your 
bond, which your attorney will furnish, and when you 
pay the five thousand dollars you will be given your 
liberty.” 

At these words from Potipher Gilphin’s lips, the 
blood rushed to the prisoner’s brain, for a moment 
blinding his vision ; he staggered, reeled, and would 


582 


In the Market Place. 


have fallen, but he caught the back of the old chair, 
sat down upon it, and buried his face in his hands. 
All the contempt, scorn and hate, which raged and 
surged in his breast against the man he had injured 
died away, and all his past sins came crowding upon 
him. He saw them now in all their hideous naked- 
ness, their awfulness, they mocked him, they beat 
upon him and overpowered him. He tried to raise 
his head to speak to the man, the companion of his 
youth, the poor clerk in his uncle’s great commercial 
house, whose beautiful wife he had stolen, but he 
could not — the sense of his sins weighed him down. 

After a while he became more composed, rose up, 
looked about him, he was alone, the lantern was gone, 
so had Potipher Gilphin. He tottered to the door and 
tried to open it, but the lock was turned; he beat 
upon the iron bars ; he tried to call out to him to 
come back; he would fall upon his knees before him 
and thank him and beg him for pardon. But he 
could not hear the sound of his own voice ; he beat 
again and again, and tried to wrench the bars, and 
called to the jailor, but no one answered. He stag- 
gered back to the wooden bench and threw himself on 
his knees before it, bowed his head and covered his 
face with his hands. 

Yes, to-morrow he would be free, but what of Effie 
Graham ? How would she receive him ; would she 
look upon him as tainted by the prison cell, by felony? 
Yes, it would brand him, so long as he lived. How 
had she taken the disgrace and humiliation he 
had brought upon her in the blaze of all the 


He Brushed His Hand Across His Brow. 583 

wedding assemblage. Could he ever find courage to 
meet her face to face again? Would she forgive 
him? Would she marry him now with the stain of a 
forger upon his name? Oh, he feared not, she 
would spurn him from her; if she did, then what? 
Well, let what would come, on the morrow he would 
be a free man, and all else was merged in the sense of 
that promise of liberty. Oh, blessed freedom ! Oh, 
blessed liberty! He would never, never go back to 
the old life of sin and slavery. To-morrow he would 
be given his liberty. He felt the state would hardly 
take the trouble to prosecute him. He groaned aloud. 
He did not pray ; he had never bent his knee in prayer 
since a child when his mother taught him to lisp, 
‘'Now I lay me down to sleep.’' Men like Charles 
Leighton do not come by prayer all at once. Some 
writers tell us, since men have grown so wise, prayer 
has gone out of date. There can be no substitute for 
prayer any more than there can be for bread ; prayer 
is the communion of the soul with God. Yet Charles 
Leighton blurted out something like thanks in his 
remorse and agony. 


CHAPTER VII. 


The: worIvD oi^ ipashion passes its verdict on hap- 
penings PAST AND present. 

A EEw weeks after the scenes in our last chapter, 
society came once more to Terrace Q., to wind up 
the season. Society did not go into mourning over 
the denouement of the great wedding which was 
to be and was not. It took it quite philosophically, 
something like a child disturbed in building a castle 
in the sand pile by its companion who is building an- 
other, it topples over, ''Oh, Pm so sorry fo ooh,’' and 
immediately turns to its play and building in the sand 
pile. So with society. The drawing-rooms, library 
and music rooms were filled as usual, not one of Mrs. 
Barton Hamstead’s set was missing, but Mrs. General 
Campden and the bride and groom-to-be and was 
not. Hot cups of tea, chocolate, and bouillon, cakes 
and ices were served. And Pm positive something 
a little stronger for those who cared to indulge, for 
I saw a large china punch bowl standing on the 
library table near the silver tea urn. Society was in 
great glee on this afternoon, it had so much to say, 
so much to talk about ; it was simply full to over- 
flowing. It was like the gushing young woman, 'who, 
on meeting her intimate friend whom she had been 
684 


The World of Fashion. 585 

separated from during a short vacation, ''Oh, Fanny,” 
she cried, "I have so much to tell you. I have a 
whole bag full of news, I began to feel if you didn’t 
come soon so I could let out, I should bust.” Society 
was in some such plight when it gathered its votaries 
at Terrace Q. on this lovely May day. When it had 
been refreshed by several cups of tea, and other 
soothing beverages, which are warming and cheering 
to the heart of man and woman, too, its tongue 
began to wag. 

"Well, really, of course, I knew something would 
happen. I felt it all the while in my bones,” said Mrs. 
Calwald, who was present in all her ampleness of 
mauve silk, black lace and yellow buttercups. "Yes,” 
she continued, dropping her chin and masking her 
face with seriousness as she addressed Mrs. Barton, 
"I had the whole story made up long ago and settled 
in my mind, but I gave the plot time to develop. 
I knew the affair with the other woman would come 
to the surface sooner or later ; it was bound to, and 
I feared a scene on the wedding day. But, law sakes ! 
I never dreamed of it winding up in the way it did. I 
had them married of course, and good and married, 
too ; I never felt so badly in all my life as when the 
minister announced the wedding off, or, in more ele- 
gant language, deferred on account of illness. Pshaw, 
he knew there was no illness in the case. For all I 
was struck speechless, I looked at Almond ; well, his 
face was the color of molasses candy after a good 
pulling, and as shrunken as a piece of dried sponge. 
All the rest of the day, whenever I attempted to 


In the Market Place/ 


586 

speak to him, or to refer to the wedding, to say how 
sorry I felt for Miss Graham, his face would tie up 
in a knot, as it were, and he would turn away and 
begin flopping his coat lapels and pulling down his 
vest. When Al's face takes on that kind of an ex- 
pression, I know he's at sea and in a terrible gale, 
too.'' 

‘Wes, indeed," acquiesced Mrs. Barton Hamstead, 
“I was horror stricken when Dr. Arlington called the 
attention of the guests and announced that Count 
Henri de Gascon was ill. I nearly fainted and so 
did Barton. The whole thing was shocking, an out- 
rage upon society. And to think that our friend, the 
Count de Gascon, whom we considered one of the 
most elegant, polished and distinguished gentleman 
of our set, should be guilty of forgery. Yes, it was 
a sad affair, really shocking. I pity Miss Graham, she 
has my sympathy." And Mrs. Barton Hamstead laid 
her blonde head against the back of the rich, up- 
holstered chair in which she was reclining, and 
indolently swayed a white pearl and point applique 
fan to and fro. Her lean figure was swathed in a 
gown of golden gray satin, shimmering under clouds 
of yellow lace, which was relieved at the throat and 
bosom by bunches of pink hyacinths. 

“My, dear," said Mrs. McClure, “when men like 
the Count, who don't live up to things, are beset by 
temptation, the devil gets into them and they have no 
power to resist him." 

“If I were Miss Graham," said Nannie McClure, “I 
would hate diamonds all the rest of my life ; I would 


The World of Fashion. 587 

have that necklace of stones and setting ground to 
powder, thrown into the fire and burned/’ 

''It was a fiasco of the most shocking kind,” added 
Freddy Faboul, bending over his cane, a picture of 
blond freshness and dudishness in his light gray suit, 
cut in the latest mode, with low tan shoes. He was 
seated near a young fair girl who was one of the 
bridesmaids. "You know how a fellow may envy 
another fellow, and even hate him, when he sees him 
carry off the prize and get more than his share of the 
good things of this earth. But a fellow’s wedding is 
a deucedly serious affair, and when a fellow’s down, 
it’s mean to kick him ; cowardly business ; besides 
there’s the woman in the case. Beautiful woman. 
Miss Graham. A fellow, you know, if he’s got any 
manhood, feels awfully sorry for the woman. I’m 
sorry for the Count, a most accomplished gentleman ; 
can’t understand a man of his acquirements running 
the risk of going to states prison. A lucky dog, after 
all, to get off so easily. He’s a free man to-day, the 
state will never bother to prosecute him.” And 
Freddie’s genial face broke into smiles again, as he 
began chatting to the pretty girl at his side. 

"Miss Graham has my sympathy, but I think the 
Count should pay the penalty of his crime,” spoke 
up Raymond Clinton. "We know his past record in 
morals is not good, but that is not here or there, it 
cuts no figure in the case of a crime against the 
state. He has no more right to go free than any 
other criminal. The state has no right to draw the 
line between him and the poorest man inside her 


In the Market Place. 


588 

borders. The forgery was intentional, he deliberately 
used another man’s name for the purpose of getting 
said man’s money. The state does its people an injus- 
tice when it lets such men go unpunished. If I were 
governor of the state I would order the Count’s 
re-arrest, and the state to bring him to trial ; then if 
the judge and jury cleared him, well and good.” 

‘'My dear Clinton, you’re hard on the Count, what 
would be the use to punish the poor devil now,” replied 
young Herendon. “Besides, we should allow for 
intentions, the Count had plenty of money on all 
sides, but couldn’t lay his hands on a cent at the time 
he wanted it. I think it a bold and daring act. It 
took a man of courage to do it. If he had been given 
four or five days before it was discovered, the wed- 
ding would have gone on, and the five thousand 
dollars would have been paid, and the original check 
refunded and no one would ever have been the 
wiser.” 

“They say that some religious crank is back of the 
whole thing, and it is what made Mr. Gilphin play the 
forgiving act,” said Mrs. Calwald, addressing young 
Herendon, “he has been going lately to hear that Dr. 
Alvin, and his strange doctrine of second blessings, 
or Christian perfection, or spiritual life, versus mat- 
ter, or some such tomfoolery. A1 wonders at a smart 
man like Mr. Gilphin allowing himself to be affected 
by any such nonsense. Then again some say that he 
did it because he feared a scandal, that the news- 
papers might get hold of his wife’s escapade with 
the Count. He has a beautiful young daughter just 


The World of Fashion. 589 

entering society, and it seems she has been led to 
believe her mother died in her infancy.” 

'‘Do you think Miss Graham will marry the 
Count?” asked Mrs. Barton Hamstead. 

"Hardly,” and Mrs. Calwald smiled significantly. 
"Miss Graham wants a husband whose record is clean 
from what we call crime. A husband in whom she 
can sink her own family and its past, and give her 
name and position.” 

"Oh, if I were Miss Graham I would certainly 
marry the Count,” replied Nannie McClure, in a voice 
loud enough to be heard in the farthest corner of the 
room, her blue eyes snapping and her cheeks flushing 
red, "he did what he did for love of her, and now she 
must marry him and save and reinstate him in the 
world by becoming a good member of society, and 
living the past down. Oh, yes, I would certainly 
marry the Count.” 

"And Nannie McClure would, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Calwald, lifting her chin and dropping her eye-lids, 
as she turned her face to the bright girl, "but Nannie 
McClure is not Effie Graham. Of course,” she added, 
tapping the nail of her forefinger with the end of 
her shut fan, "Fm not infallible, but dear, I generally 
scent things. I have a wonderful nose. I think my 
instincts and intuitions must center in my nose, and 
not my brain. It seems to say the Count and Miss 
Graham will never marry.” 

The whole party laughed, as Mrs. Calwald ended 
her sentence with a little sniff of that organ, and 
smiled broadly upon them. So we will here take leave 


590 


In the Market Place. 


of society. Society is not so bad, it has its weak side, 
its human side, its vanities and frivolities. For all 
society’s cheeks can be pricked and made to blush, 
and bleed real red blood. Still it will not do to expect 
too much of it. The world has its work bees, and its 
drones and butterflies ; what we term society is the big 
butterfly without spreading wings; it flys hither and"' 
thither, seeking pleasure and amusement. It perches 
on the bright flowers, in search of honey, and sticks 
its long beak down deep into the heart of their petals 
to extract all the sweetness to be had, for it is selfish 
to the core, and is only content when feeding on 
things. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THIS IS The: t,oyt thou givest. 

Summer has come and gone since we took leave 
of society, which at the first appearance of hot 
weather hied it away to the country and to cooler re- 
sorts. The month is October, but as yet newly born, 
Gartha Lowell’s cottage stands in the midst of crim- 
son leafage, pompeian reds, russet greens and browns. 
The sun has dipped its face for the last time below 
the horizon; the long shadows creep up among the 
maples that sigh in the soft breezes. The amber light 
of the western sky mingles with the silvery haze of 
the autumn evening and drops splotches of shimmer 
and sheen upon the goldened sward. It was Gartha ’s 
hour for meditation, the sweet sunset hour which she 
loved so well ; the hour when her soul, unbound, un- 
fettered by passions, desires, mercenary cares, and 
the toil which keeps most of humanity earth bound, 
earth grubbers, soared to realms broad, vast and 
high. An hour in which both body and soul ascends 
with the angels and tastes the exquisite joy of free- 
dom untrammeled by sin. She seldom or ever was 
disturbed when once in her sanctum and the door 
locked. 

Aunt Louise was in the grove, seated under the 

m 


59^ In the Market Place. 

wide-spreading branches of a tall maple, she looked 
quite a picture in her bright silk bandana handker- 
chief wound about her head, and showing beneath its 
folds glimpses of kinky gray hair that contrasted with 
her rich copper colored skin and the dark navy blue 
of her gingham dress. Talitha was seated upon the 
ground near by gathering up her dolls and putting 
them in their little carriages for the night ; also her 
doll’s cups and saucers from off the small tables, as 
she had given a doll’s tea to several of their neigh- 
bors’ children. Charley was very busy helping her to 
pack her dishes and other paraphernalia into different 
boxes. Louise sat upon a long bench with her head 
bent, her cheek resting on her hand intently watch- 
ing the boy. Sometimes she would turn her face in 
the direction of the pretty cemetery where her dear 
Miss Annette was laid to sleep in the early spring. 
Then her eyes would have that inexpressible retro- 
spective look we sometimes see in the large dark eyes 
of a Newfoundland dog, or a Spaniel that has lost a 
beloved master. Her grief had been deep and sore 
for the loss of the loved mistress she had nursed when 
a baby, waited and attended upon when a girl, and for 
years was her faithful maid, companion and friend. 
And now she turned to the boy, as the last remaining 
link that bound her to this world, and bestowed upon 
him the same loving care and devotion she had given 
to her Miss Annette. The old creature was now well 
housed and protected, and a feeling of deep gratitude 
to her Maker filled her heart, and gave her a sense of 
rest concerning the few years allotted to her, knowing 


This is the Love Thou Givest. 593 

she would be well provided for. Fanny, Charley’s 
nurse from the day he was first brought a baby to the 
institute, had gone to a distant village to take a rest. 
Her mother had died, and there was no one to look 
after her father and two brothers and the home. 
Every day Louise proved more and more valuable 
to Gartha, she took charge of the two children and 
their clothes, as she was very handy with the needle, 
and no one could excel her in darning stockings. She 
also helped Ann on baking days, she made delicious 
light bread, biscuits, light rolls, and no one, not even 
Mrs. Lowell, could make a loaf cake better. And the 
old colored woman’s life grew fuller each day, and 
so will every life that turns to duty and the work its 
hands find to do. 

Charley, at first, was somewhat shy of Louise, but 
he soon commenced to find his way to her when get- 
ting into trouble with Talitha, or one of those numer- 
ous accidents which are the lot of children befell him. 
Louise would then take him upon her knee and kiss 
his tears away, and press his cheek to hers. Some- 
times when she would be seated by the window sew- 
ing and he got into a dispute with Talitha, he would 
run to her, place his two elbows upon her lap, rest 
his chin on his palms, look up into her face, and in 
his childish prattle relate his side of the story. She 
would caress his head and tell him he was ‘^ole 
mammy’s blessed boy, but dat he musn’t spec to hab 
his own way in ebery ting, dat Talitha hab rights, too. 
An’ laws, honey pet,” she would add gravely, '‘if dars 
anyting bad on dis yere arth fo’ a pusson it’s to hab 
38 


594 


In the Market Place. 


da own way too much/’ One evening they were 
alone, having had the whole day to themselves, after 
Louise had undressed him for bed, she seated herself 
in the big rocking chair near the window and took 
him up on her lap, as it was her custom now to hold 
him in her arms awhile before laying him in his cot. 
Talitha had gone to spend a week at the home of the 
pastor of the little Presbyterian church, who had a 
boy and girl about her own age. Gartha went to 
the city in the morning and had not returned. Louise 
began humming one of those old negro melodies that 
are the sweetest, as well as the most characteristic 
songs of the old South. Every little while her eyes 
filled with tears as she droned out her words and 
looked out of the window. ''Why do ooh cy?” he 
asked, waking up from a drowsiness, for he was en- 
joying a sort of sensuous repose, tired out after the 
long day’s hard play, and raising his small slender 
hand, tanned yellow by the sun and air, he patted the 
bronze cheek of the old Negress, and felt it wet with 
tears. 

"Ise donno, my son, I’se guess it’s kase ole mammy 
loves ye honey. Kase Ise once knowed a bouful 
lady who was once a chile, an’ she lay in dese ole 
arms jes like ye honey. Dey was not ole den, but 
young an’ strong, so strong dat it ’pears Ise could lif’ 
a house. But Ise knowed her. Den she growed up 
and hab a little boy dat she longed to hab wid her, 
but it ’peared like she was not to hab him.” 

"Why couldn’t she have him with her?” he asked, 


This IS the Love Thou Givest. 595 

Icllitting his brows as if trying to fathom the reason 
why. 

“Ise donno honey. Ise knows nuffin’, Ise got to 
a place dat Ise can say Ise knows nuffin’. Ise used 
to tink dat Ise did, an’ Ise make plans fo’ dis an’ fo’ 
dat, but somethin’ allays come to interfere, an’ in 
dis case it’s one ob dose- puzzlin’ tings, dat only de 
Lo’d can ’count fo. He did not sed fit to let her hab 
him, so he jes’ povided anoder mother.” 

‘Xike my mamma Garta.” 

"'Yes, honey, jes’ like her.” 

"Did she love him like mamma Garta loves me ?” 

"Yes, honey, she loves him dealy,” and Aunt 
Louise sat by the window holding the boy in her arms 
until he fell asleep. 

Mr. Gilphin paid regular visits once a week to the 
Maples, on pretense of seeing the boy, but we know 
it was not alone to see Charley which took him every 
Thursday evening to Gartha’s cottage. It is true, 
since the death of the boy’s mother, the little fellow 
was seldom out of his thoughts. He intended to give 
him all the advantages in the way of an education 
that money could provide. A few weeks after the 
scene in the prison with Charles Leighton he went 
to his attorney and had a sum of money set aside 
for him, in case of his own death. Potipher told 
his daughter, Elsie, that during his stay in the country 
he had found a little boy who was distantly connected 
to him, and to whom he had taken a great liking, 
and he hoped she would like him also and look upon 


In the Market Place. 


596 

him as her brother. He had Gartha send Louise 
with Charley and Talitha to Snowball Hill to spend 
a week. Elsie was delighted with Charley and 
charmed with Talitha, who made a lasting impression 
upon her, and to whom Elsie, in after years, gave all 
the affectionate care of an older sister, and this affec- 
tion the beautiful Talitha equally returned in her 
unselfish, gentle, but absent-minded fashion. Mr. 
Gilphin then, after repeated requests from Gartha, 
sent Elsie to pay a two weeks’ visit at the Maples. 
And to say that Elsie was pleased and delighted with 
Gartha, the Maples, the children ; Tanglewood, where 
she spent a whole day with Mrs. Lawrie ; Peter, Carl 
and his flute, and the pictures, books and dogs, would 
be tame language. 

The evenings Potipher spent at the Maples with 
Gartha opened up a new world to him, a world of 
beauty, sweetness and love, as he listened to Gartha’s 
conversation, so full of eloquence, poetry, and ideas 
new and startling to him. She taught him to see 
and hear, and that money making, like eating and 
drinking, should be treated as a thing apart in one’s 
daily life, and she turned his thoughts into broader 
avenues, deeper channels and higher plans and 
projects for the future. Yes, Potipher had come to 
love this fair and noble woman, with a love stripped 
of all selfishness and passion in its baser sense. It 
was a love sincere, sacred and abiding; a love which 
sprang to life with his changed being, and which 
Gartha herself had created. Gartha, gifted in mind, 
pure in heart, chaste as the light of the planet Venus 


This is the Love Thou Givest. 597 

when she shines in the east like a jewel resplendent 
set in the dawn’s canopy of purple blue. Loved 
Potipher, in her own way with a love like unto the 
love of the saints. But Potipher, manlike, wished to 
make her his wife, to have her share his home and all 
he possessed. He felt free, since Annette’s death, 
to offer her his hand and heart. She surely could 
have no scruples about accepting him. When he 
proposed marriage, she answered that she was not 
free to marry, that there had been no divorce grant- 
or asked for by either herself or Arthur LoweL 
although they had been separated over two years. 
''Why not continue on in our old friendship?” she 
said. "Why should you want to marry? Marriage 
is right if there are no obstacles to its consummation ; 
it is a blessed state if it is the ideal marriage, a 
spiritual companionship of two souls that Christ came 
to establish.” So she put him off from day to day 
and week to week, and month to month. He was 
devoted to her and meant to be until death, still he 
did not hold the same views in regard to divorces and 
marrying again that she did. One evening about a 
week before this chapter opens, Cyrus Alvin called. 
He came towards five in the evening, as he said, to 
get a glimpse of the country and a sniff of the soft 
scented autumn winds. He was looking worn and 
pale. He had had no vacation during the summer 
and had worked very hard; all the time he could 
spare from his church he spent in the different mis- 
sions preaching, and lecturing in halls to working 
men and women. Wherever he went, to the home, 


In the Market Place. 


598 

to the lecture halls, mission or church, and it was 
mentioned in the papers, there would be a crowd to 
hear him ; the people were hungry for his words, 
for his interpretation of the Scriptures, the teachings 
of Christ. 

It was after tea, they were seated in the library, 
his beautiful head rested against the back of the 
chair, and it seemed to Gartha that his pale chiseled 
features were becoming more spiritualized daily. As 
he turned his face to her and brushed back a few 
straggling locks of hair from his brow, he flashed a 
glance of approval to some remark of hers in regard 
to his breaking down if he did not take a few months' 
rest. Then he spoke of a sad occurrence; of two 
members of his church, a man and wife, who had 
applied in the open courts for a divorce. 

'T am grieved exceedingly over the matter. It is 
a sad thing when two beings gifted with intelligence 
and having all the advantages of education and Chris- 
tian teaching, and bound by family ties, that they 
cannot adjust matters so as to live amicably together ; 
to bear and forbear. The civil laws are so loose in 
regard to divorces in most of our states that God's 
ministers are beginning to stand aghast at the fearful 
frequency of the breaking up of homes, and the 
separation of families, which is a menace to the 
morals of a community. Of course, many of the 
ministers are to blame; they marry divorced people 
in the church, when they have no scripture for it. 
If a party’s first marriage is by a minister that ends 
it so far as the church is concerned. If the state 


This IS the Love Thou Givest. 599 

annuls a marriage, the state should marry all di- 
vorced persons. The pulpit, sooner or later, must 
come to the rescue. I will launch forth against it, 
even though I lose my church by it. Cowardice in 
God’s servants is not to be tolerated, it is unpardon- 
able. He hates a soldier of the dodging kind, and 
quickly court-martials him. God seldom picks out 
faint-hearted men to do his work. There is nowhere 
in the four gospels, where the Lord Jesus sanctions 
divorces, or marrying again when divorced. When 
the Pharisees asked him, Tf it were lawful for a 
man to put away his wife for every cause. He 
answered and said unto them, ‘Have you not 
read that He which made them at the beginning 
made them male and female,’ and said, ‘For this 
cause shall a man leave father and mother and cleave 
unto his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh. What 
God has joined together let no man put asunder.’ 
They said unto Him, ‘Why did Moses then command 
to give a written divorcement and put her away?’ 
He sayeth unto them, ‘Moses, because of the hardness 
of your hearts, suffered you to put away your wives, 
but from the beginning it was not so. And I say 
unto you whosoever putteth away his wife, except 
for fornication, and shall marry another committeth 
adultery, and whoso marrieth her which is put away 
doth commit adultery.’ Matthew xix. chap. Yet with 
this scripture, spoken by Jesus Himself, the churches 
in our land stand dumb before the civil courts and 
their lax laws in regard to marriage. 

“Paul speaks decidedly, in his epistle to the 


6oo In the Market Place. 

Romans, in regard to divorce, he says, ‘She that Is 
married is under the law, if her husband dies she is 
free from the law, if she marries while her husband 
lives she is an adultress/ He meant the man here as 
well as the woman. No,” he said, rising, his cheeks 
flushed, his eyes flashing, as he began pacing up and 
down the floor, “there is but one marriage, and that 
has been idealized and spiritualized by the Saviour. 
‘And a man shall leave father and mother, home and 
friends and cleave unto his wife, and they twain shall 
become one flesh.’ This is binding while life lasts. 
If a man, by adultery, drunkenness or cruelty, or vice 
versa, makes life unbearable and drag each other into 
the mire, let them separate, the law of God admits 
of it, and the law of the land will grant it. But 
let them bear their cross bravely and heroically. No 
life need be void or wasted, there is always something 
for idle hands to do. The fields are ripe to garnering, 
go ye out to the market places and call the laborer 
in. The harvest is plentiful but the workmen are 
few.” 

While he spoke Gartha sat with bowed head, her 
elbow resting on the library table, and her hand 
shading her face. When he seated himself again, 
there was silence for some moments ; then she lifted 
her head, and turned her face to him. She was very 
pale, and large tears glistened on her eye-lashes, 
which veiled the half closed-lids, and moistened her 
white cheek. He looked upon her and his heart smote 
him, a great pity and tenderness surged up in his 
breast for her, and crimsoned the blood clear to his 


This Is the Love Thou GIvest. 6ol 


temples, for he loved her, with a love that Paul the 
Apostle, might have given to Lydia, in whose house 
he dwelt for a time, or Damaris ; and knowing her life 
and its great sorrow, he felt grieved that he had 
spoken so emphatic upon a subject which was the 
cause of the long, dark night that clouded the years 
of her first youth. ‘'Oh, forgive me, my dear sister, I 
have wounded you I know,’’ he said, bending towards 
her. “These are delicate subjects, but the time has 
come in which the pulpit must speak and handle them 
freely and boldly, and, as the saying is, without 
gloves. But it is not to such as you I refer. Oh, no, 
God forbid.” 

“I agree with you in all you have said,” replied 
Gartha, “I know what it cost me to break the sacred 
tie. But I had to do something to keep my reason, 
and my self respect; it was the tragedy in which I 
died to live.” 

It was late when he took his leave, for they had 
many things to talk over, as men and women do 
whose lives are full of self-imposed work, for the 
benefit of others. The night was soft and tender with 
fresh balmy breezes that carried in every waft the 
scent of ripe fruits, garnered grain, and dried wheat 
sheaves. As he walked down the road-way to the 
electric car station he felt more than heard the silent 
drip of falling leaves, and now and then the noiseless 
thud of pine cones, which were not lost upon his ear, 
but were part of the harmony to the sweet cool winds, 
that rustled the branches of the trees, and laved his 
brow and cheek. So were the brown fields, that laid 


6o2 


In the Market Place. 


here and there, on both sides of the road, stocked 
with shucks of golden corn; and the cottages that 
lay embowered in tall maples, forest oaks, and the 
stately mansions of the city merchants and bankers. 
‘'Thou, oh, God,’' he exclaimed, taking off his hat, 
and gazing up to the blue heavens, for he had been 
thinking of Gartha, and with a gesture of his thin ex- 
pressive hand, “Thou, oh, God didst reveal Thyself to 
us in the likeness of man, and showed Thy infinite love 
through Him, how blessed to walk with Thee, and live 
in Thee. Ah, yes, one must die daily to all desires.” 

That same night before retiring Gartha wrote in 
her diary: 

‘ Oh, thou pale beautiful Christ, 

So fair to look upon with thy God’s face, 

Benig-n tender eyes, deep and fathomless. 

Turned inward as if seeing- earth, heaven. 

And worlds unimaginable. 

Why demandest so much ? Ah, I know. 

For the heart that loves thee, loves humanity. 

And as Mary Martha’s sister, who sat at thy feet, 
Ivoved thee, this is the love thou givest, 

A love undreamed of, unknown, imperishable, 

The love only known to hearts, 

Wherein thou dwellest. 


CHAPTER IX. 


WATCHING AGAIN IN THEJ MARKE^T PTACE). 

It is a May evening again in the Market Place. 
The spring twilight loiters long, the blue gray 
shadows stealthly creep, and creep, across the clut- 
tered streets, and up and about the tall buildings that 
close it in and around. The soft winds faintly stir 
the young leaves of the few old stunted trees, that 
still stand here and there in the narrow alleys. Low 
in the west, bars of faint purples, opal-pinks, gold- 
ened violets and bronzes, streak the horizon and illu- 
minate the greenish blue of the sky. The people 
hurry, hurry, to and fro, hither and thither. The 
shadows grow longer, grayer, until absorbed into the 
dusky veil of night. Now all is hustle, bustle, in the 
Market Place, its booths are filled with all the plenti- 
ousness of the spring; all its rich, ripe fruits, its 
flowers, in all their varied colors and perfumes. The 
crowd grows more numerous (it is a different crowd 
from the one of the early twilight). It passes to and 
fro, hurrying, hurrying, elbowing, pushing. 

But there is a stranger waiting there to-night; at 
least he is a stranger to the Market Place. He stands 
in the recess of the same great window, where An- 
nette Lefarge did five years before, when she watched 

603 


6o 4 In the Market Place. 

every evening for seven months for this same stranger 
to kill on sight. Charles Leighton, the soi-distant 
Count Henri de Gascon, waits to-night in the Market 
Place. Why does he stand there, watching this toil- 
ing, burden-bearing mass of humanity ? Has he any- 
thing to sell, anything to offer these men and women? 
This mixture of every element, every passion, and 
some of its virtues, that stamp the faces of a hetero- 
geneous crowd. Why does Charles Leighton stand 
there with a pale face, compressed lips, Potipher Gil- 
phin’s pardon running in his ears, churning his heart, 
and stirring the soul in him, until it cries out against 
his ill spent life. The day he was liberated from 
prison he went immediately to the little suburban 
hotel, where his room had not been disturbed since he 
left it; the proprietors having orders to retain it for 
him. He was about to begin to make an elaborate 
toilet, to call at the Weston Villa, when a letter was 
handed him by one of the bell boys of the hotel. It 
was from Miss Graham ; he knew her hand writing 
and his heart gave a great bound, tears rushed to his 
eyes, coursed down his cheeks, and glistened like 
dew-drops on his moustache. Yes, she remembered 
him, was his inward cry, and this was to congratulate 
him upon his release from the hateful pen, in which 
he had spent the last three weeks. Yes, she loved him 
a little he knew. He threw himself into a chair and 
hastely tore open the letter and read. 

It was to the effect that all was at an end between 
them ; that it would be useless for them to think of 
renewing the old ties, which he had cancelled by his 


Watching Again in the Market Place. 605 

own act, and the shame and suffering that he had sub- 
jected her to. ‘And it would be better for both never 
to see each other again she wrote him thus to save 
him from what she knew could not but be a painful 
meeting, should they have an interview. The dia- 
monds she would send to his bankers ; he could dis- 
pose of them as he saw best. 

When he came to the end, he was deadly pale; he 
rose from his seat, crumpled the letter in his hand, 
and began pacing up and down the floor. After 
walking some minutes he threw himself into the chair 
again, bent his head, buried his face in his hands and 
groaned aloud. It was just retribution. He sat far 
into the afternoon, holding the crumpled letter ; then 
he rose, tore it into a hundred bits and flung it into an 
open grate, and touched a match to it. The bits 
flamed up and in a second there was only a few 
cinders, a symbol of what the fire of remorse and 
repentence had done for him. They were all that 
was left of his past. 

So we find him on this fair spring evening standing 
in the Market Place, watching the surging, seething, 
toiling masses pass to and fro. What have you to 
offer them, Charles Leighton? What can you offer 
them ? The labor you have so long cheated them of. 
You are free now to do and to work. You have 
many years of life before you, and plenty of time your 
own. Your brother and sister, agreeing that very 
day, rather than have their father’s estate disturbed, 
to allow you income enough monthly to live com- 
fortably, with some to spare. Yes, Charles Leighton, 


6o6 


In the Market Place. 


you have plenty of time, you do not have to toil for 
bread, and on that last great market day you must 
render an account of this time. What shall you do ? 
Go out to the highways, and byways, the streets of 
the great cities, and their great Market Places, and 
gather in the stray sheep. The smalPboys, the half- 
grown boys, the young men. Teach them industry, 
thrift, teach them the golden rule. The value of life, 
the sacredness of life, and that a man’s life is a great 
thing; that it is a great thing to live and have our 
being. Teach them the new commandment left by 
the Man of Nazareth, to love one another, by this all 
men shall know that ye are My disciples. And that 
the words of the Master are as true to-day, and more 
so, as when He said, ‘'The harvest is plentiful, the 
fields ripe to garnering, but the laborers are few.” 


CHAPTER X. 


WHDRij thi:re; is no marriage, nor giving in 
MARRIAGE. 

We will now turn our eyes to Snow-ball Hill in 
Elm Lane. It is radiant in all the blush and bloom of 
spring. The lilacs blend their perfumenvith the white 
redolence of the snow-balls and bridal-wreaths, and 
the great forest trees in all their young verdant leaf. 
The cedars and pines throw dark cool shadows upon 
the green sward and across the path, making inter- 
stices of golden light. The long day is drawing to a 
close, the hour is six. In the grove at the northwest 
side of the house is gathered a family lawn-party; 
they are seated around a long table, laden with good 
things. Potipher Gilphin is seated at the head, at 
his right is Gartha and his left Cyrus Alvin ; next to 
Gartha Elsie Gilphin, and at her left is little Charley, 
and opposite him on Mr. Alvin’s left is Talitha, with 
her bright golden curls falling over her shoulders and 
kissing her fair cheek, which had just the faintest tinge 
of the rose. Her face beams with loving smiles upon 
Charley, who is her vis-a-vis ; he was pouting, being 
terribly jealous of Cyrus Alvin, for taking possession 
of his Talitha. Dr. Alvin made a great pet of the 
orphan girl, he said to Gartha one day, that her face 

607 


6o8 


In the Market Place. 


was his conception of what the angel faces might be 
that sang over the cradle of our Lord the night of 
His birth, and to the shepherds in the field ; and to 
confirm his idea, she had such a delicious soprano 
voice. And if he hadn’t so many calls on his purse he 
would take her to some noted artist and have her por- 
trait painted. She should by all means have her por- 
trait painted. 

as soon as my friend. Nelson Lawrie, gets 
settled in his studio at Forest Grove, I am going to 
have her and Charley painted. Nelson has not been 
home but a few months from Europe, and the judge 
is having the old mansion made over, as he wants his 
daughter, who was Mrs. Carst, and married Nelson 
Lawrie two years after her husband’s death abroad, 
to live there. She is the only daughter of Judge Van 
Court and he will not listen to her leaving the old 
home while he lives,” and Gartha’s cheeks were suf- 
fused with blushes, and her eyes shone with a light 
expressive of the affection she still felt for the lovely 
Carrie. ‘AVe were girls together,” she continued, ''she 
spent much of her time with us at Tanglewood, the 
home of her second husband. You must call upon her 
when they are settled, I know Nelson Lawrie would 
be delighted to meet and entertain so distinguished a 
visitor as the Rev. Cyrus Alvin. And you love chil- 
dren; well, you will find two lovely children, Maimy 
and a boy nearly two years old, little Nelson Van 
Court Lawrie.” 

At the foot of the table is seated Frank Conners, 
now a splendid specimen of young manhood. His 


Where There is no Marriage. 609 

handsome ruddy face all aglow with health and 
intelligence ; indeed, he is good to look upon, 
this fair, clean youth, with the love-light in his 
eyes. One can see in him all what a man might 
attain to, when master of themselves ; free to fight 
the good fight, and keep steadily on to eminence. 
In such we may have hope, for did He not say, 
‘That ye then might become as the sons of God.'’ 
Elsie Gilphin may well be proud of the love and 
devotion he gives her; her wealth and beauty is 
but small compared with the pure mettle of this 
boy’s heart, and well does Potipher Gilphin know this. 
For eight years he has watched him, and step by step, 
promoted him, and now he is his own confidential 
clerk, and with this has conferred upon him the high- 
est honor he can pay to any young man, by giving 
him the hand of his daughter. 

Mr. Gilphin went himself to Hetty Conners’ Cot- 
tage on purpose to invite her to the family gathering 
at Snow-ball Hill. “Come in the morning,” he said, 
“and spend the whole day with the party.” She 
thanked him many times for his kindness to herself 
and son, but begged him to excuse her, “She could na 
leave her house alone, an’ she wa’ very busy then wie 
her garden. My son will represent me, an’ it makes 
me such a happy woman to think he has the privilege. 
Ah, sir, you have been very good to me an’ mine, I 
have, na words to speak what my heart would like to 
say,” and Hetty wiped a tear away which coursed 
down her cheek. Then glancing down at her 
she hurriedly tucked thern under her apron, . 


6io In the Market Place. 

'‘All I have done has simply been to reward merit,” 
answered Potipher, who had learned from Mrs. 
Lowell that it was in this, Hetty Conners' cottage, 
that Annette Lefarge and her old Negro maid found 
a comfortable shelter, and that Hetty would not ac- 
cept any rent from Cyrus Alvin ; it was her mite to the 
Lord, she told him. But Hetty never knew the rela- 
tionship which once existed between the strange 
woman, Mrs. Leighton, and the man who had been 
such a friend to her son. "Frank is an exceptional 
young man, and worthy of all the promotion I have 
bestowed upon him.” 

"There is an old Scotch saying, sir, like master, like 
man, the gift to see and appreciate his qualities, and 
reward them accordingly, is in you. Frank is a 
bonnie boy, strong, honest and faithful, and he loves 
you sir. You will excuse me, sir, I ha' many duties 
here in my little home, some other time I shall be 
glad to go.” As she stood before him, making 
excuses, with her white hair softening her round 
ruddy face and bright intelligent eyes, her clean gray 
gingham dress and long white apron, she was a picture 
of all that is healthy, wholesome, sturdy, industrious, 
good and motherly. 

Cintha, the cook, had prepared a delightful repast, 
and Sam waited upon the table with all the, ability, 
science, agility and grace inherent in the trained black 
servant. (They are born waiters.) There is one 
missing from Mr. Gilphin's family, one whom Elsie 
mourned and grieved for as she would have for a 
loving mother ; this was Martha Hays, who died the 


Where There is no Marriage. 6ii 

December before of pneumonia. For weeks after her 
death Elsie refused to be comforted, she had never 
known a mother but Martha. Potipher mourned her 
also, with a grief sincere and deep, she had been an 
inmate of his house for over eighteen years, and he 
paid all the respect and attention, mingled with affec- 
tion, he would that of an older sister. There is an- 
other old friend we must not forget, and that is Beppo, 
the dog; Elsie’s faithful companion. He took up his 
position some four or five yards from the table when 
the company first seated themselves. He stretched 
himself full length on the grass, with his fore-paws 
in front of him and his snout laid between. Here he 
kept watch on the guests, and especially Sam, whose 
every movement he followed with his eyes. He was 
very old now for a dog, and followed his young mis- 
tress about with slow steps, but wherever she was to 
be seen Beppo was never far away. 

The party laughed and chatted until the sun had 
sunk below the horizon. Potipher Gilphin was at his 
best ; he had a uniqueness of character that stood out 
at all times, but which was more pleasing and delight- 
ful when in the society of others. His speech was deli- 
cate and refined, mixed with a quaint humor that ani- 
mated his face, and sparkled in his deep blue eyes. 
In these moods he was really charming, interesting 
every one about him, and he had also the art of listen- 
ing. Emerson says, ‘That he who listens well — talks 
well.” So Potipher Gilphin listened to Cyrus Alvin, 
who seemed to throw himself into the enjoyment of 
the evening, and the prattle of those around the table ; 


6i 2 In the Market PlacCo 

Elsie and Frank, Charley and Talitha, the great trees, 
and all the beauty of the scene. When they finished 
they all arose, and later on Gartha separated from the 
others and wandered alone half way down the slope 
of the hill, which overlooked the fields undulating in 
the soft verdure of young clover. To her left the 
railway track cut towards the west, and also the 
brook, lined on both sides with tall poplars and wil- 
lows, in their delicate green ; their roots and branches 
washed by the stream, as it wound through the 
meadows and low-lands. She stood with her arms 
folded, her tall slender figure in its silvery gray robe, 
accentuated by a background of dark oaks, which 
were stirred by the gentle breeze to soft murmurs 
above her head. Now and then a bird twittered in 
response to the soughing of the leaves, tinged by the 
long rays of burnished gold, intermingled with a bril- 
liant creamy light which streaked the horizon. She 
stood with her hands clasped before her, contemplat- 
ing the scene (for as we know the hour had an inde- 
scribable charm for her). She was deep in thought 
when startled by hearing a foot-step upon the grass 
behind her, and in a moment Potipher Gilphin joined 
her. 

‘T was thinking,” he said, folding his arms across 
his breast, "'as I watched the children with Dr. Alvin, 
Elsie and Frank, that we might all spend a delightful 
summer abroad. I could, with your permission, send 
word by the agent here to New York, and have pas- 
sages and berths engaged for the middle of June; it 


Where There Is no Marriage. 613 

is the pleasantest month of all the year to take a sea 
voyage/’ 

The color faded from her cheek and lips, she bowed 
her head and was silent. 

‘'Oh, fair lady, is it vain to sue once more for your 
hand? If I were gifted with the eloquence of a 
Demosthenes, the subtle philosophy of Socrates, I 
might then hope to plead my cause, and paint in glow- 
ing words the depth of the love I bear you. But I 
alas am but a plain man, and my love will have to find 
expression in the simple acts of hour by hour, and day 
by day. In that way I may prove to you how tender, 
steadfast and true my love for you is. I am aware 
there is a reluctance on your part to give up what you 
consider your liberty, and the work you have at heart, 
and which all unaided you have succeeded in so ad- 
mirably, but, fair lady, in union there is strength. 

“You would not only have your freedom, but my 
help in every good work you would wish to give your 
aid and counsel. This life,” he continued, with an 
earnest pathos in his voice, “which you have imposed 
upon yourself, may after a while as the years go by, 
as you go on your lonely way, become irksome. It 
seems such a sacrifice, when it can be warmed by the 
companionship, love and devotion of a husband. 
Dear lady, I lay all at your feet, my name, home, 
wealth, and above all my heart. All I ask in return 
is to be my wife. One so fair and good cannot reject 
so much, when it means power to you, and happiness 
tp both. You are beautiful, and still young, you are 


6 14 In the Market Place. 

alone ; God does not require this renunciation/’ He 
stood with his shoulders thrown back, and as he spoke 
he seemed to have taken on added height. His cheek 
flushed, his eyes deepened and darkened with the in- 
tense love he bore her, and shone with its pure holy 
flame, which illumined his face, and made it hand- 
some. 

^'There is nothing under the blue heavens so much 
to be prized as the single and undivided love of a 
good man for a woman,” she said, her cheeks blanch- 
ing white, as she spoke, and folded her hands upon 
her bosom. ‘‘It should never be lightly cast aside. 
To know there is one who bears me such pure and 
unselfish love will gladden the moments and hours of 
the days to come, and go down with me into the long 
years to the end. And whenever the thought comes 
that I was so fortunate to meet a man in whom I was 
capable of inspiring this sweet affection, this noble 
love, my heart will thrill and leap for joy. Oh, I 
thank you, and this moment ; oh, believe me, is in the 
highest sense, the happiest I have ever known ; though 
it brings with it much that is sad and painful. Dear 
Mr. Gilphin, I do not consider myself free to accept 
your hand, or to give mine in marriage.” 

“Not free!” he cried, his face turning deadly pale, 
and something like tears dimming his eyes, as he took 
a pace or two back from her. “Have you still scruples 
upon the matter of the divorce Arthur Lowell ob- 
tained in the courts three months ago, on the grounds 
of desertion. You have been separated nearly four 
years from the man whose cruelty and cold persecu- 


Where There is no Marriage. 615 

tion drove you from your home. Three months ago 
he obtained an absolute divorce from you, and yester- 
day afternoon was married privately to Effie Graham, 
the very woman through whom he tortured you, by 
the meanest, basest and most cowardly instrument a 
man can use, the constant humiliation of a wife in 
presence of a mistress. No it cannot be,’’ he said 
passionately, ‘‘in a nature so exalted as yours, there 
cannot be one spark of the old feeling left for Arthur 
Lowell.” 

Her beautiful head fell forward, her lips were white 
as her cheek, and large tears moistened the long dark 
lashes which shaded her eyes, as she pressed her hands 
upon her bosom. “Oh, believe me not one spark,” 
she replied after a pause of some minutes, “the night 
I saw Effie Graham’s head resting on his shoulder, 
under the old elm at the back of our cottage, and 
heard those fatal words spoken I told you of, they 
wrenched asunder every tie ; they were the arrow 
that pierced my breast, and killed all feeling of love 
and respect. But we loved each other once, we were 
married at the altar, there we plighted our vows of 
love, and the minister of God sealed the covenant 
with the words, ‘Those whom God hath joined to- 
gether let no man put asunder.’ God admits of a 
separation, but not of divorce. He admits of divorces 
in extreme cases, but not of marrying again while 
both live. ‘He that putteth away his wife except 
for fornication, committeth adultery, and he that mar- 
rieth her which is put away, committeth adultery.’ 
These are the words spoken by Christ in regard to 


6i6 


In the Market Place. 


marriage; they are in some instances terrible and 
inexorable as death, but they were spoken to make 
sacred the law and tie of marriage, and to protect 
woman, the family and the state. They were not 
spoken so much to the individual as for the uplifting 
of humanity. To you and to myself, this law is our 
fate, our destiny, its duty lies before us, let us follow 
where He leads.’’ 

'^Do you not recognize the right of the civil law of 
the state to annul marriage ?” he asked trembling, as 
he gazed upon her in wonder. 

''Only so far as it agrees with divine law, all law 
governing mankind should be founded on divine 
law. If I am a follower of Christ, and believe in the 
commands of Jesus in regard to marriage, I cannot 
believe in the right of the civil courts to annul it, 
only so far as it is in accordance with the New Testa- 
ment. I have always contended for the spiritual 
union of man and woman; it is the beautiful union 
which our Lord meant for those who are high enough 
to reach it. It is the union of souls. Understanding 
this union as we do, let our companionship go on in 
the old way.” She raised her head, the reflected radi- 
ance of the dying day fell upon her hair, changing it 
to a rich golden bronze, which enhanced the opal tints 
of her cheek, and the ivory whiteness of her throat, 
softened by frills of creamy lace. 

Again he felt she had risen above and beyond him ; 
what could he do but follow where she led, but he 
would make one more appeal. "The world, dear and 
fair teacher, laughs all such philosophy to scorn, It 


Where There is no Marriage. 617 

is for your protection that I plead with you to be my 
wife. Our lives will be thrown much together on 
account of the children. I shall have to take the 
responsibility of their material welfare, you their 
comforts and education. Be my wife and there will 
be no impediment to the spiritual union, the ideal life 
you speak of.’’ 

‘‘It is through self renunciation that we attain to 
the highest plane, the highest happiness. To do this 
we must turn our back on the world, and what the 
world thinks. The barriers which prevent our mar- 
riage is the commands of Christ, therefore it is my fate 
and yours. Look yonder,” she said, pointing to the boy 
as he ran towards Cyrus Alvin, holding on to Beppo’s 
collar and pulling the dog after him, at the same time 
calling to Talitha to follow on. Cyrus Alvin stood 
below in an opening space of field, behind him rose 
clumps of willows and tall poplars, which marked the 
course of the brook winding through the meadows. 
Through their interstices the gold and crimson of the 
sunset gleamed, their leaves catching all its varied 
tints. Above their tops, which ran like a dark thread 
outlining the horizon, was a streak of luminous opal 
sky that threw out his slender, straight figure against 
the deep brown shadows of the trees, and his head and 
beautiful profile silhouetted in the evening glow. He 
stood with a smile upon his face, his arms outstretched 
to the boy and dog. 

“You love the boy,” she said turning away her 
eyes. They had rested a moment upon Cyrus Alvin. 
“I love him and the orphan girl. Let the boy and her 


6i8 


In the Market Place. 


be the bond between us, let us live so that if the 
barrier which separates us here on this earth, be not 
removed, we may meet up there,’’ she raised her arm 
and pointed to the violet jeweled dome above her, 
‘'Up there where there is no marriage nor giving in 
marriage, but are as the angels in heaven.” 



3 




























1902 



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i'. 





